Inside Out
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: Reclusive Arthur Kirkland lives a quiet and routine existence inside the house he hasn't stepped out of for three years. That is until his cheerful, extroverted new neighbor, Alfred F. Jones, moves in next door. Agoraphobic!ArthurxAlfred.
1. Chapter 1

Inside Out

Reclusive Arthur Kirkland lives a quiet and routine existence inside the house he hasn't stepped out of for three years. That is until his cheerful, extroverted new neighbor, Alfred F. Jones, moves in next door. Agoraphobic!ArthurxAlfred.

~*oOo*~

* * *

**Hey, folks. I know I have a lot of stuff I need to finish, but I think this will be a relatively short project. I haven't yet decided. Still, I'd be happy if you could tell me what you think. :)**

* * *

_Prologue_

There was no real, complex formula as to why Arthur Oliver Kirkland did not step outside his home. He'd lived a normal enough childhood, with normal enough parents, in a normal enough neighborhood in a normal enough town. Nothing particularly terrifying or traumatizing that would make people exclaim "Aha! So THAT'S the reason," and then nod sagely, as if the little bastards had any idea what they were discussing.

On his own, he was not a nervous wreck, shivering in a corner inside his house and clutching a teddy to his chest. Arthur had never been attacked, never been given a real reason to fear the world that lay outside his door. He knew this. Yet he would not step outdoors for any reason, under any circumstances. The thirty year old man kept a fire extinguisher inside of every room in his house, not wanting to consider the slightest possibility of what might become of him and his house in case of a disaster.

Not wanting his lawn to look shabby, even if he were not heading out to look at it himself any time soon, he'd hired a yard service some years ago to come by every month and spruce things up a bit. Thankfully, due to the wonders of the Internet, he could pay them electronically.

Every Halloween, his house was egged and carpeted with toilet paper because the man was too unnerved to stand outside his doorstep and hand out treats. Arthur knew by now to be ready to call service over to tidy it up every November 1st.

After many long years of study, Arthur had earned a doctorate degree in Literature to teach at the University level. But now he worked from home, as an online editor and author. He'd published a few thesis papers on Anderson and Grimm that had won him a great deal of acclaim, as well as a small book of children's stories that was doing reasonably well in the market.

As for all of his groceries, cleaning supplies, papers (he could get the news electronically, but Arthur was still somewhat an old-fashioned bird), milk, and other miscellaneous needs, these were dropped off inside his door, in a little anteroom Arthur had built adjacent to his house so that he would never once have to step out the comfort of his home. Even the trashmen knew by now to come inside and grab the bags Arthur left every Monday near the door, even if they grumbled and complained amongst themselves.

The few acquaintances and relations who had known the severity of Arthur's "case" (or, at least, liked to think they knew) had called it upon themselves to try and drag Arthur back outside, make him see that the world really WAS full of sunshine and daffodils and wasn't really a place to make you writhe and tear at your hair and want to run, run runrunrunrunrun until you could close yourself out of it, lungs burning, the shadow of panic bearing down at him with all the weight of the universe, swallow you up until—

There's no until. Because you've collapsed back inside your house, safe, safe, but not safe, **_never safe._**

There's only him, and Scotch, both literally and figuratively. The people who'd finally learned that Arthur + Outside Rabble= _No_ after sporting a black eye or a bloody kneecap had gone away, and eventually they stopped calling.

Scotch was the Scottish Fold Arthur had adopted when he'd first moved into the neighborhood many years ago. He'd always liked cats, had grown up with at least one or two usually around, was pleased that he had the cat's company, even if it was sometimes a pitiful excuse's for a human's presence and conversation.

But he doesn't care. There's the Internet if he wants to talk to people, there are social networks available, even if most of the people there are absolute morons who apparently can't remember how to spell or turn off the Caps Lock. Scotch is really a good companion, usually ready to cuddle—

If it's his own idea—

—and if the cat isn't snoozing in the thin cracks of sunlight that stubbornly peek through the heavy curtains Arthur has covering his window, or gallamping about outside. Arthur wishes, _wishes_ Scotch were an indoor cat, but if he wanted to go out, he went out. When he'd first came to live here, he was forever scratching at the door, yowling piteously and irritably until Arthur finally opened the door and the cat could scurry outside.

Now, there's been a pet door installed, much as Arthur doesn't like it. But he does care about the cat and wants to make him happy, so he reluctantly watches Scotch scurry outside via the window on the rare occasions he finds himself with nothing to do, sees the cat disappear through a row of bushes that separates him from his next door neighbors. He wonders what Scotch does on his little adventures, if anything at all. Once or twice the cat came back with bite marks that looked as if they'd come from another feline—maybe he had an enemy. Or a lady friend. Where did the cat go? Did he ever think of Arthur? Was he living a double life, perhaps as someone else's cat? Was he only coming back because Arthur fed him?

Of course. And by the time Arthur gets to _those _kinds of thoughts, he knows he's being pathetic and then gets a replacement for Scotch the cat—actual scotch. A few drinks later, and he's in a blissful stupor, or at least too drunk to care much about anything besides the fact that he can no longer lift his head up from the floor.

And soon enough, even that fades away and he tumbles into oblivion, to be awoken hours later by a splitting headache and a cat staring down disapprovingly at him, waiting to be fed.

Sometimes, he turns on the television and sorely wishes he hadn't. There's nothing but reminders of what he's missing (but doesn't miss) by staying in here, the whole outside world judging him for his life.

He's not a bad or cowardly person, but he knows what they think: Ridiculous. Such a baby. Absurd. They're laughing, laughing laughing laughing, and if he were to step out they'd hone on him like birds of prey and laugh themselves sick.

No, they wouldn't. Perhaps they would. Probably no one would know, care.

And the truth of that is why he never ever leaves his household.

There's not a warm body to curl up next to whilst watching old movies, no one to laugh with at old, silly jokes. But that's still fine, because he's safe. There's no one but occasionally Scotch to warm up his bed, to read passages of poetry to, to make love to or have hold him he's woken up with yet another nightmare chasing him out of slumber, shaking in a cold sweat.

That's alright, too. For all his flowery writing, he's not a romantic. For all the absurd novels out there for sad, ridiculous women and stupid people like himself, of ideal gentlemen and perfect devotion and lasting love—

There is none of that. Maybe for the lucky or unlucky habitants of a fairytale, but not for him. There is no one waiting for him to come home, and that's okay, because he never leaves home to begin with. There's his peace, and he can live without the scrutiny of human beings in his own peace.

Loneliness is but an abject sacrifice when there's other way to live.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi, folks! :) Glad the reaction to the first chapter was positive; I've never spoken to anyone with agoraphobia to my knowledge, so please correct me if you see something funny here. It'll be interesting to do more research for this story!**

**Please continue to read and enjoy!**

~*oOo*~

* * *

The hot water isn't really doing much to alleviate the throbbing at the base of his skull.

Scowling darkly, Arthur inches back under the showerhead, closing his eyes as his hair steadily soaks, wincing at the impact the stream of water makes, droplets bouncing off of his aching forehead and scalp. Resigned, he slowly sinks to a sitting position in the tub, inhaling the steamy air and wondering when the aspirins are going to take effect.

If they'll help at all, even. Probably not. This hangover is probably going to take much of today to get over, and even by this evening he'll likely still be feeling ready to vomit his guts out. Wine hangovers are the worst—he's not sure what inspired him to buy that vintage bottle of French whatever-it-was. Boredom, perhaps, or the desire to seem a bit more cultured to himself. But he doesn't really get the appeal of wine—plenty of people remark that they can get a very distinct flavor from the stuff, but the only thing Arthur really picks up is something vaguely fruity and the taste of the smell of wood chips. Next time, he'll just buy something strong and simple, less likely to linger in his system.

If he ever drinks again, that is. A third of a container of mouthwash and his mouth still tastes terrible. Arthur makes a face as he groggily picks up a bottle and squirts its contents onto his hair.

A second later, he realizes he accidentally reached for the body wash rather than the shampoo and curses.

Fifteen minutes later, he unenthusiastically turns the water off and drags himself out, drying off before trudging out into his bedroom, wandering into his wardrobe to see what he'll wear today. Scotch is curled up on the foot of his bed, and Arthur envies him as he wearily tries to tie his bow tie on neatly (_just because he lives alone is no validation to dress like a slob in his book_), stares at his reflection in the mirror, deadpanned. Sleeping through today would be _heavenly_, but he does have work to do.

With a sigh, he stumbles off to the kitchen where the smell of burnt toast is waiting for him. He pulls out the steaming black bits of what vaguely resembles bread and now are more likely to be recognized as charcoal from the toaster, spreads generous amounts of orange marmalade on them. The smoke alarm in his kitchen is going off now—he looks up and sees that his eggs are a muddy yellow, wrinkled mess plastered to the pan on the stove. Without much preamble he grabs the pan and proceeds to start scraping off the smoldering eggs with a fork onto a plate.

The kettle starts to whistle before long, and Arthur quickly pulls that off too—it's very lucky he hasn't yet found a way to burn water, though if something's wrong with his cooking, he hasn't quite registered it yet. A tea bag of Earl Grey sinks into his waiting cup, and he waits for the clear water to turn murky. Scotch wanders in just as Arthur settles down to eat, slightly squashed face grumpy. He never did like mornings either.

Arthur smiles while chewing on a mouthful of crunchy eggs, bends down to pat the orange and white cat. Scotch flitters away from Arthur's touch towards his bowl, meowing expectantly.

With a dry snort, Arthur wipes his mouth on the napkin waiting on his lap (more force of habit than anything else) and stiffly stands up to oblige him. "I'm coming. Coming, you dear, silly git. Just give me a moment."

He opens a can of quality cat food—only the best for his Scotch—and mixes it with a bit of milk and some crushed vitamins Scotch won't swallow on his own. Once the sloppish, tuna-smelling mixture has been lowered to the ground, the cat immediately starts eating, and Arthur starts scratching Scotch behind the ears. Mealtimes are usually safe to touch the cat, because Scotch is too preoccupied to try and bat him off. Arthur's a little disappointed when the cat finishes his food so quickly, slinks away.

Food only half-eaten, he nonetheless scrapes the rest of his breakfast into the garbage, though his tea looks like its begun to settle so he takes it with him to the living room, where his office is.

Sinks down at his chair, turns on his computer. Pulls up the document he knows that they're expecting at least by the end of the day. Arthur leans back in his swivel chair, cracks his intertwined fingers. With any luck, he'll be finished by early afternoon, and he can finish that short story he's been working on for some time now. Without preamble he scans the PDF folder until he gets back to his place, and starts typing. The reassuring _click-clack_ of fingers on keys fills the room, accompanied by the soft humming of the monitors. Somewhere, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Scotch fussily knead a pillow and turn around a few times before lying down to sleep. Arthur's glad; he's laid out several large and comfortable pillows around the house so that the cat never need look for a good place to nap.

He turns on a light—it's too dark in here. Hasn't pulled apart the curtains to see what sort of day it is outside. Takes a sip of tea, because his headache is still a prominent, fat boulder in his aching head. Starts to type again.

After awhile, just when Arthur's headache is beginning to wane ever so slightly and he's picking up some speed now on his editing, the sound of a truck blasting its horn makes him grimace and clutch his sore head. Outside, someone starts laughing. The burly sound of a man shouting, and another of one chuckling. Voices, lots of voices, _loud_ voices. Disturbed from his slumber, Scotch opens one irritated green eyes and scrambles out of the room. Arthur wrenches open a drawer and throws on headphones, opens a window for Pachelbel's Canon, turns it up.

But even with the mild, gentle music spilling into his ears, there are a great number of men chattering outside, calling out. And much to his horror, squeaks and squeals and loud THUDS began to accompany the sound. Good Lord, what are they doing out there? Arthur prays it's not another construction project on their road—hadn't they already done the like just a year and a half ago? He remembers the nightmarish weeks the men had been here with their noisynoisynoisy equipment, had only ever been able to get any work done at nights and on Sundays. The idea that there might be _jackhammers_ makes Arthur's hands claw through his hair in distress.

But maybe he's just overreacting. He stares sullenly at his screen and waits for the noises to recede. But they don't. In the midst of this, someone is still laughing, a terribly booming, obnoxious laugh which somehow is carrying through several walls of foundation and brick and plaster to Arthur's poor ears! Arthur grits his teeth and, after ten minutes of this, irritably slams his fingers down on the keyboard, making a juncture of gibberish appear on the document before he rips the headphones off and at last decides to take a look.

He tentatively approaches the curtain and slowly pulls the heavy drape aside, peeks out. To his relief, there aren't any cement mixers or men in hard hats standing around, though there is a large Uhaul in his next door neighbor's driveway. Arthur's brow creases just a little. Did Mrs. O'Neil decide to move? She'd been in the neighborhood ever since Arthur had moved in some years ago.

The UHaul is relatively small—only a few men are trudging in and out of it, though one blurry figure is zipping out of the carrier with an armload of boxes before rushing into the house and scurrying back out again for more. He doesn't seem to need any help. Arthur watches the strong and speedy little figure with some amusement, some envy. Well, hopefully he was being paid his due…that's what those men were for, anyhow.

His eyes wander to the furniture being carried in and out. Wonders if a young family might have moved in, hopes that isn't the case. For the most part, this neighborhood is occupied by quiet retirees and Arthur would much rather his peace not be disturbed.

The noise is sure to settle by this afternoon.

~*oOo*~

But just two hours later, when the noise has at last settled somewhat and Arthur breaks for a scone (and another ibuprofen tablet), there comes a loud hammering at his front door. Bewildered, the man stands up from his work, wracking his mind and trying to remember if he's ordered anything recently. The answer is no, and besides, it's a Sunday. Not the milkman, who knows by now to leave the bottles indoor anyhow.

Trying to ignore the vapid fluttering in his stomach, he hastily sits down and tries to get back to work, but the THUD, THUD, THUDDING doesn't go away, from either his door or his heart. After two minutes of this, Arthur throws his headphones to the ground and strides out of his living room, fuzzy caterpillar-like eyebrows marked in an definite scowl.

But the green eyes beneath them are still lit with anxiety.

When he reluctantly comes into the anteroom, he sees the door. Closes his eyes. "Yes? Yes, what is it?" he barks, voice booming in the empty hall. He hopes it makes him sound powerful and intimidating. "What is it, what is it?"

The thumping at the door at last ceases when the stranger hears his voice, and Arthur can vaguely make out a shape through the opaque glass at the door.

"Hi!" It exclaims—_he_ exclaims. A man, very likely a young one, judging by the sound of the voice. Confused, Arthur uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other, keeping a safe distance away from the other end of the room. Maybe it's just a wrong address or something—it's happened before.

"What is it?" Arthur calls out again warily, irritably wondering if the visitor had read the painstakingly obvious sign next to his door that said '_No Solicitors._' "What do you want?"

A pause. "Uh, to say hello." Arthur heard a faint, nervous chuckle. "So, um, hello. Hola. Bonjour. Konni—oh, forget it, my name's Alfred F. Jones, and I just moved into the house next door. So I thought I'd go around introducing myself!"

Arthur blinks, a little taken aback. Wasn't it the custom for neighbors to come introducing themselves to the new member of their flock, perhaps armed with Jello salad or casseroles? Not that Arthur was inclined to do anything of the sort for too many reasons, but it's a new one on him.

"I thought Mrs. O'Neil owned the house next door?" he asks curiously. He'd liked her, even when she'd stopped coming.

"Who's she?" Alfred asked.

"The woman who owned the house next door, for bloody's sake."

"Uh, actually a couple called the Robinsons rented me the place, so I think you'd have to talk to them about any other owners," Alfred replied uncertainly, and the conversation took a brief, awkward halt. "A-Anyhow, I'm new to this town, so I was wondering if you'd like to uh, maybe hang out sometime? Maybe you could show me the sights?"

Huh, boy. The painful pulsing in his head starts up again, and Arthur leans his forehead against the cool wood of the door frame, inhaling quietly. He wonders if it's worth the trouble of explaining his condition to Alfred. But that would be a long, painful, and ultimately unnecessary stretch of time, since Arthur has already decided that he will never hear from his neighbor ever again.

"Find a map," Arthur says dryly. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be of much use to you."

"Aw. Well, that's okay. Anyhoo, just wanted to confirm some things via neighborly responsibilities."

Arthur blanches from the other side of the door in confusion. _Neighborly what?_

But Alfred is already speaking again: "Number one, do you mind loud music? My old neighbors used to yell a lot and cuss me out in Italian whenever I turned up my stereo. Well, one of them did, crabby guy, though his bro was real nice and an awesome cook."

Bewildered Arthur just stares at the floor, slightly agape. Alfred's speaking to him as if they were both college-age roommates, instead of people who just so happened to live in the same patch of land. He wonders how old Alfred is, resists the urge to hurry to the sitting room window so that he can get a better look at him.

But maybe this was all the norm these days. Maybe it had always been typical. At any rate, Arthur supposes he can appreciate Alfred's asking.

"I doubt you'll blast it so loud _I_ can hear it," he returns stiffly, with a hint of dark humor. "But I'd appreciate it if you kept the sound always to a minor deafening. I am very busy." If worst came to worst, Arthur wasn't above cranking up classical music obscenely high, in case Alfred happened to be a nightmare of a neighbor who always hosted loud parties with revolting and obnoxious music.

"Um…cool…." Alfred continues, voice still muffled. "So I think we'll be fine there. Number two, I'll try to keep my fridge well stocked, so if you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar or an egg or something, you're good and golden."

"That's very thoughtful of you, but—"

"Number three, if you wanna grab a drink or something sometime, that'd be awesome!" Alfred exclaims, and Arthur rolls his eyes in disgust. Oh, God. He's one of_ those_ people, a drunken, rowdy frat boy, no doubt. Again, he wonders just how young Alfred is, feels very, very old. "Haven't checked out the bars round this place yet. So, you know, maybe if you—"

Arthur sniffs. "The telephone directory would be a nice place to start. The internet too. Well, it's really been corking talking to you, but as it is I'm very busy at the moment. Thank you for stopping by!" _Please don't come over ever again. _

"I—" Alfred stutters, sounding a little taken aback, maybe a little hurt even. When was the last time Arthur Kirkland hurt anybody? "Uh, cool, man, I underst—"

"Welcome to the neighborhood, Alfred!" Arthur says merrily, his voice rising unnaturally high as he ducks inside of his house again, prays that his new neighbor can't see his shadow through the glass the way Arthur can see Alfred's.

After a moment, he hears footsteps receding from Arthur's walk, and he closes his eyes with some relief, opens the anteroom door and sits down on one of the steps, elbows on his knees, cupping his face with his hands.

He'd been beyond rude and he knows it, but it's better this way. Alfred will settle down soon, meet some chaps down at the pub, maybe a nice girl if he isn't married already. He likely is, even if the U-Haul had been a small one. Cheerful and friendly people like Alfred-what's-his-face-Jones aren't allowed to stay single. Society would never stand for it.

Something orange and white zips past his knees, and he catches Scotch hurrying past his master to the waiting pet door. A second later, Arthur blinks, thinks to snatch the cat up and drag him back to the living room, but it's too late; with a flash of his short tail, the cat heads outside, the little door flapping behind him. Sunshine and a hint of greenery. The door flies back. A snatch of light. Wood. The door keeps wobbling tantalizingly—_last chance, last chance_ it seems to be saying before at last lying still.

Arthur looks at it for a moment. Hopes Alfred is too busy organizing his things to notice the shorthair wandering through his yard. He hates the idea of sharing the cat with anyone, but how would he ever know anyway?

He turns and heads back to his office corner, the confined space seeming to enclose him in a hug, and Arthur scoots in his swivel chair as he again begins to work, painstakingly checking every word for some alternation.

~*oOo*~

At least his new chapter's raking in the reviews. Arthur looks at his email page again, smiling broadly when he sees that he has another review alert. Hastily clicks on it, sucks in a breath with pleasure when he sees that it's another long, gushing review, though to his consternation there are spelling and punctuation errors in it. The reviewers he tended to respond to with their errors tended not to respond back, or review his work anymore, but how else would they learn?

He reads the review, waits for another one. Wishes he had something to do in the meantime. It's early evening now, and he supposes he ought to make dinner soon.

_Shtonk. Shtonk. Shtonk, donk, donk_.

Oh, splendid. Strange sounds are coming from outside again. With a frown, Arthur reluctantly turns off his computer and heads to his bookshelf, wondering if he can find something interesting enough to make the time pass for awhile. He already gave his place a good scrubbing yesterday, so he'll have to find something else.

Arthur goes over his treasured books, disappointed when nothing really piques his interest.

_Shtonk. Shtonk. Shtonk. _

Maybe he can turn on the TV, find something that isn't one long nature special after another—

_Shtonk. Shtonk. Shtonk. _

Now he realizes what that sound is; it's the sound of a basketball thrumming against cement. Arthur is a little disarmed at the fact that he didn't recognize it at first. Had it really been such a long time? He'd never been good at the sport because he was short, but the students at the university where he used to work—

Arthur quickly shakes his head. Wishes Scotch would hurry up and come home. He timidly creeps to the window, taking hold of the curtain.

Well, even if the two wouldn't be speaking to each other, they would be living in fairly close proximity. Arthur supposes that he might as well get a good look at Alfred now, considering he'll be calling the man in all likelihood to complain about loud noise, if he doesn't call the police to handle it instead.

He pulls back the curtains—

And wishes he hadn't.

A crop of honeydew gold hair is glinting in the lazy afternoon sunshine, sweat twinkling on a lightly flushed, lovely face. The carelessly tousled hair is flying as Alfred hurls his basketball into the hoop, letting out a loud whoop as if he'd actually scored a point in a game. He turns, and again there's that pleased face, soft and pleasant and cheeks rosy and bursting with good health, and his _eyes_—

Merry and blue, so blue, bluer than anything Arthur has seen for a long, long time. He can compare them to various precious stones, or to the ocean, or to the sky, but while the bright blue is impeccably glorious, it's what they contain that makes Arthur Kirkland swallow heavily, his mouth extremely dry, sweat beading on his own brow.

So vigorous. So determined and so happy—Arthur worried that he might have ruined Alfred's day, but it appears his neighbor has already forgotten. The eyes make him look like a child at play, but the body was anything but childlike. Though not grotesquely muscular like some weirdoes Arthur had seen on television, Alfred's body is nonetheless like a_ bloody bodybuilder's_—

Alfred stops zigzagging around the empty drive like an idiot, wipes at his wet brow, and slowly—_oh, god, oh, god, he's not really not really going to oh lord yes he is_ peeling the shirt off his torso, off the Adonisian body so beautifully and perfectly sculpted and Arthur leans forward, his forehead accidentally bumping against the glass with a loud _thunk_. Startled, Alfred looks up but Arthur is already ducking away from the curtain, clutching his sore forehead and cursing so wretchedly it's a wonder his tongue doesn't burst into flames.

Good God, why is the universe so set and determined that he be in pain today?

Grumbling, Arthur cautiously peeks back out, and Alfred has gone back to jumping and blocking and twisting around imaginary opponents, smiling a large and stupid smile with both his eyes and his mouth—Arthur wonders when he'd last seen both.

Decides he doesn't want to think about it and goes back to ogling Alfred, watching him grab a nearby water bottle and simply dunk it all over himself, laughing. Then, it's back to dribbling the ball, shoots, scores, and now Alfred's miming doing a guitar solo on his knees. Self-absorbed idiot. Arthur can't help but smile, though. It's strangely adorable in its own sexy way. Or maybe sexy in an adorable fashion. He can't decide which one it is.

When his legs start to hurt from standing, he grabs a chair and watches for a long time. The sun slowly starts to creep back towards the West, and soon the sunshine is gone. Still, it's kind of sort of still light out, and Alfred keeps dribbling, keeps dunking, keeps doing ridiculous little dances whenever the ball swishes in. But after awhile, the ball rolls towards the grass, and Alfred tucks it underneath his arm, panting considerably. With a dazzling smile, he wanders back towards his garage and heads inside. Arthur watches, feeling strangely hollow.

At last, when it is very dark outside and he determines that Alfred is not going to come back, he slowly lets the curtain fall back. A strange blankness washes over him, and he quietly stares at his hands, not at all sure what to do with himself now.

Scotch somewhere is mewing impatiently for his dinner. Without thinking about it Arthur gets up and trudges to the kitchen, proceeding to open the usual can and cutting his finger when recalling that smile in the dark.

Alfred probably thought he was a surly old man. And Arthur knew that he was perverted as well for looking as long as he did.

But his new neighbor was, well, Arthur was a master of the English language but beyond nonsensical jabbering the only two words that he can come up with were 'bright' and 'nice.' Bright and nice people did not associate with people who would rather be burned alive than leave their households. Or if they did, they were one of _those_ people who visited despite the fact that they were bored to death, impatient with people who had a stutter and liked to read poetry.

There's no point in getting hung up over it. Bright and nice people belong with other bright and nice people; circle molds do not fit in the triangle hollow, regardless of how hard you try.

And the odds of Alfred belonging to the 1/10th of society Arthur belongs to, well…

Instead of making supper, Arthur pulls out a flask from the cabinet and a cup. Considers mixing it with coffee or juice or something of the sort, but instead puts the cup away and takes a swig from the bottle.

No more drinking, his ass.

~*oOo*~

Early the next morning, a faint rapping sound steals its way into Arthur's house again. Brow wrinkling, still underneath the covers, the man shimmies deeper into the warmth, willing the nose to go away.

But soon, words accompany the din.

"Hey." Knock. "Hey." Knock. "Hey."

There'd better be some sort of emergency or detrimental crisis going on. Most unwillingly, Arthur crawls out of bed and makes his way to the anteroom, torn between anticipation and downright murderous intent. It was nice that Alfred felt that he could come back and talk to Arthur, but did it have to be six in the morning?

"Stop saying 'hey,'" Arthur mutters bitterly, hating the world and every occupant in it, most especially the one who had knocked at his chamber door "Hay is for horses."

A split second of silence, and then a laugh.

"Oh! I totally get it! You made a joke!" Alfred chuckles appreciatively, and Arthur softens just a mite, wrapping his bathroom more tightly around his cold body. "Good one, dude."

"May I ask you what in the blasted world you're doing, knocking at my door so early in the morning?" Arthur snaps, wishing he didn't sound quite so peevish. But he was exhausted. "I have quite a bit of work I needed to do today. I want to sleep."

"On a beautiful morning like this one?" Alfred asks, and Arthur could only imagine the dumbfounded look in those stupid, beautiful blue pools. "Autumn's out and singing and crap. Iggy, sleep when you're dead!"

"Maybe you WILL in a few minutes if you don't—"

"So Iggy, I was wondering if ya wanted to come jogging with me." Alfred asks cheerfully. "It's a little while 'fore school starts, but I think that we can get a good mile or so in if we hurry—"

Arthur yawns. "I'm not interested." _For so many, many reasons._ He has the strangest notion that he can _hear _his neighbor pouting.

"Aw, c'mon Iggy, I know it sucks when you start out, but after awhile it feels amazing." He urged. "Great way to start your morning. I don't mind waiting if you want to change into—"

This is the last straw.

"Go away!" Arthur all but screams, his temper getting the better of him. "Just go away and let me sleep, you rotten git!"

Arthur claps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening. He tries to stammer out an apology, but there is already the sound of feet racing away from him, down the path and into the road and there can't be going out beyond the door, beyond safety, because if he does he will die, but if he lets Alfred go without an apology he will also die—

He lets out a shuddering moan, claps his hands to his chest. It's so tight. It's so tight and he can't breathe. Holding his front like he's about to be sick—and he just very well might be—he rushes into the living room, shoulder smacking into the doorframe along the way. Arthur staggers to the window and shoves the curtains apart.

That was, Arthur Kirkland thinks as he watches Alfred sprint away from the cul-de-sac like a mad deer, the last time he ever saw Alfred F Jones approach his doorstep.

~*oOo*~


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi, everyone! Hope you'll keep reading, enjoying, and reviewing. Sorry for the long wait—had some tests. ^_^ Much love.**

~*oOo*~

* * *

_Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless_

_Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless_

He likes the novelty of this old tune, though it's ostentatiously depressing. Well-worthy of earning the nickname of 'the Hungarian suicide song.' Why on Earth his mother thought it a good idea to send him this old record, he doesn't want to contemplate.

Irritated, Arthur turns the old gramophone off and curls up in a small ball on the sofa, staring into space. Unable to concentrate on his work, he'd given himself the afternoon off, only to tackle everything he'd wanted to accomplish before noon: the kitchen is spotless, the clouded pots and pans with their scorch marks tidied up and sorted away, the floors mopped until they shone, the bathroom walls scrubbed until they gleamed. Now there is nothing to do and while he feels tired and heavy in his bones, he doesn't feel sleepy, so there is no peace to take from obliviousness.

The will to write is there, but the energy isn't. He wants to write, knows that he'll likely feel a little better once he finishes a chapter, but he's too miserable to care very much about it.

And so he sits there, fighting off the urge to head to his liquor cabinet for the usual "medication" to make the day pass by—yesterday is only a fleeting memory, an inane blur after he'd watched Alfred hurtle away from his home like the devil himself were after him.

Arthur tightens into his lonely little ball, wanting to cave in on himself and disappear altogether. No one would know or care until the mortgage payments stopped coming, no one but the cat would notice his absence. He refuses to feel sorry for himself; it's not as if he ever went out of his way to endear himself to anyone.

All the same, he wishes Scotch were somewhere nearby so that the two could play "catch the fairy" together, but after checking over his house two or three times, Arthur finally had to admit that the cat was nowhere to be found. He's probably outside—Arthur hopes fervently that Alfred doesn't have an animal of his own that'll pick fights with his poor feline. Alfred looked like the type who would own some loud, annoying dog.

He imagines he hears a tentative tapping noise—where is that coming from? A woodpecker pecking away at the side of his house? He doesn't care enough to lift his heavy head, so Arthur just stares blankly at the open book lying beside him on the floor, on the same page it has been for over an hour now.

_Tap, tap._

_Tap, tap. _

It's growing, taking on a rhythm. Brow furrowing, Arthur hears the noise improve into a knocking, and confusion makes itself evident in his hazy consciousness. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Arthur reluctantly gets up and shuffles across the room to the covered window, hoping it isn't a deliveryman with a ridiculously large stack of books. Arthur has a rotten habit of drunk-buying things online, and he vaguely wonders if he should check his account as he slides his curtains away to get a glimpse at his visitor.

His glazed eyes widen, and his jaw drops.

He's so astonished, the curtains swish out of his weakening hold and fly back over the glass; Arthur seizes them and pushes them away, hardly daring to believe his eyes: Alfred F. Jones is standing at his front porch, clutching something Arthur can't quite make out. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to have noticed Arthur gawking at him like an idiot, wondering if he'd had an extra dosage or two of the rum last night and just didn't realize it yet.

Without thinking the matter over properly (admittedly if he did he would have kicked himself), he rushes to the anteroom, heart pounding even as Alfred's fist pounds the door, his voice finally picking up. It's nothing like the cheerful, take-on-the-world chatter Arthur heard yesterday; Alfred sounds very quiet, incredibly sheepish and shy.

"Um, Arthur?" He asks, and the man just stares at the door, dumbfounded. "It's me, Alfred. Um, I came back," the young man adds unnecessarily. It almost makes Arthur smile, but he's still beyond bewildered. What the bloody devil is Alfred doing here after Arthur told him to get lost?

His jaw sets in an angry frown. _If Alfred thinks he's really that easy to be coaxed out, Arthur would just call the police and—_

"Uh, just wanted to say that I'm real sorry about waking you up at the crack of dawn. I think it's totally cool if you wanna sleep in and stuff—my bro's the nicest guy in the world, but not so much when you wake him up real early." A soft snicker. "Actually, he gets pretty scary then…almost as scary as when the guy's watching a hockey game. But never mind that. I made apology muffins. Um, hope you don't mind that they taste like blueberries…not a bang-up chef and wasn't sure what you liked…if you don't like blueberries, I can run to the store and make something else."

He feels torn between burying his face in his hands and fleeing and simply snickering. Alfred's voice is more uncertain when he speaks up again: "Are you still there? Should I just, um, leave these on your doorstep?"

This is getting pathetic fast, though Arthur supposes it already went and got. He closes his eyes, quickly counts backwards. It won't be so bad if he doesn't look. Already he's taking a few steps backward, trying to brace himself for what _shouldn't_, but what he hopes beyond hope _will_ happen.

"….come in." His voice is rougher than he intended it to be.

A yelp from outside does nothing to help Arthur's fluttering nerves. Or his mood. Obviously Alfred wasn't really expecting a response.

"Wha?"

"I said, you can come on in, Alfred," Arthur snaps, and he quickly turns around when he hears the doorknob turn, and a bit of warm air flutters at his clothes, making his stomach roll unpleasantly. Arthur tries to work his face into a nonchalant mask. "Close the door on your way in."

To his relief, Alfred obediently obliges and Arthur slowly turns to face him again, his mouth drying when he gets an up close glance of his new neighbor smiling at him, looking relieved. Despite the fact that he now feels parched, Arthur swallows and digs a finger at his collar, wondering when it got so hot in here.

_Manners, you fucking git, manners!_

"Um, h-hello." With an uncertain bob of his head, Arthur hesitantly accepts the tray of muffins Alfred hands him with another murmured apology. Well, they certainly don't look awful, compared to the flambé ones he usually makes.

Alfred takes a glance around himself, bright blue eyes curiously circling the room like a curious bird exploring new territory. "Hey, you got an indoor porch. That's neat. Don't see too many of these anymore."

Arthur makes a passive attempt at a smile and looks away, resisting the urge to wring his hands. _When was the last time he'd had company, what did he do with a guest? _"I suppose you'd like to sit for awhile."

"Yeah, that'd be great!" Alfred exclaims breezily. "If that's okay, that is. I understand if you're working."

With a non-committal jerk of his hand, Arthur guides him up the steps and swallows, trying to keep his heart from leaping out of his throat. He feels like the loser boy in a classroom who has a friend over for the first time and doesn't know where to look. Doesn't like it at all.

"Would you like something to drink?" Arthur asks, once he's determined his voice won't catch.

"Sure! Any chance you have coffee?"

"…I'm afraid not," Arthur returns reluctantly, turning his face forward again so that Alfred doesn't see his ears burn. "I do have tea, however."

"Tea's fine."

"Sit down. If, ah, y-you like."

Still grinning, Alfred obliges, and Arthur's glad for the excuse to busy himself with the stove, though his green eyes can't help but wander back to Alfred. When was the last time he'd had company? Let one someone who smiled…like **that**, and looked…like **that**?

"Uh….nice weather we're having," Alfred's voice cuts through his thoughts and Arthur jerks his head noncommittally.

"I'm sorry I was so short with you," He says softly, carrying over two small tea cups and spooning generous scoops of Earl Grey in them. "It was…"

But the man waves his hand, making a face. "Nah! It was my bad, shouldn't been trying to drag ya outta bed when I ain't even really met you yet. Hell, one of my friends works the night shift at the hospital in Greenboro, and I know it's better not to call her before ten unless I want my ears boxed."

It takes Arthur a second to process that Alfred is making a joke. He let outs a weak chuckle and stands up when the whistle thankfully starts going off on the kettle.

_Her….friend….Alfred has a girlfriend? _It's hard to keep his hand from shaking as he pours the hot water in their cups. _Of course he does._

"All the same, I **am** sorry—"

"It's real important to me that I get along with my neighbors," Alfred said firmly, helping himself to three sugar cubes from the plate and stirring them in his tea. "So, what do you do for a living, Iggy?"

Arthur purses his lips upon hearing the strange nickname again. But he'll overlook it for now, if only to be polite.

"…freelance writing, editing," he responds, raising an eyebrow when he sees Alfred take another sugar cube. The boy's teeth are going to rot. "For corporations and the like. They commission me to look through manuscripts and confirm that everything's tip-top."

"Cool!" Alfred chimes excitedly. "Kudos to you, man. I could never do that kind of stuff. Can't sit still for too long. Never could. Heck, my Ma complains that I couldn't even do that when I was still in the womb."

Somewhat taken aback, Arthur manages a tiny smile, though he still doesn't want to look his neighbor in the eyes. "So, what do you do, Alfred?"

"Teaching," Alfred promptly responds, to Arthur's surprise. "Well, kinda sort of. Most people I meet don't consider a Physical Education guy to be a real teacher."

Interest waning, Arthur picks up his tea cup and stared down at it, catching sight of his disapproving reflection. He remembers all too well the shouting instructors in high school who would torture him for his lack of muscular fitness.

"Interesting. What age level do you instruct?"

"First to Fourth grade. Every day."

"That must be exhausting."

"Nope! Well, yeah, sometimes, but I love the kids I work with." Alfred downed his tea and makes a face. Apparently even four sugar cubes fail to make it sweet enough. "All of 'em awesome."

"You exercise every day at school," Arthur asks dubiously, "And in your free time?"

"Sure."

Well, if it meant that Arthur got to look at a well-toned chest whenever Alfred went outside, he certainly isn't complaining. "Is that why you decided to be a gym teacher?"

Alfred blinks and thinks carefully, as if he'd never been asked this before. "Guess I chose the career because I wasn't really good at much else," the young man says honestly, taking a sip of his cooling tea and obviously trying hard not to make a face before quickly setting his cup back down. "I loved science in school, just didn't do so well course-wise. And I'm a guy who loves to move around a lot, stuff his face, _and_ kids, so I think it worked out pretty well, considering. Never woulda figured I'd be teachin' little league either, but it's cool. Gives me an excuse to throw pizza parties, so I'm excited about that."

Arthur leans back in his seat and tries to think of something witty or interesting to say or ask. Whenever he fantasized about having company over, he'd always pictured a scholarly bookworm like himself. He supposes he should be disappointed, but he can't really look a gift horse in the mouth, either.

"So, you just recently graduated?"

"Sorta kinda. Taught before in Idaho. I was offered a job back in California, but I decided to come here instead. Closer to—" Alfred shakes his head like a dog trying to rid itself of water and laughed, looking uncomfortable again. "Well, closer to home."

Arthur's green eyes flick to Alfred's blue, away, and then back again. A rosy heat starts pooling in Arthur's face, and the man hurriedly takes a bite of muffin, trying his best not to gag. His teeth practically feel like squealing in pain from the sheer amount of sweetness in the pastry, and this is coming from a man accustomed to vomiting three or sometimes four times a week. "I—I see."

Alfred looks worried. "Are they not good?"

He forces himself to take another bite, inwardly reeling. It's sugar. 99% sugar, 1 or more adequately .5% blueberry. "N-no. Quite delectable."

A blur of orange suddenly leaps onto the table and Alfred starts but then quickly grins again at the scowling (can cats scowl?) feline staring morosely at him with cross green eyes. "Hey there. What's your name, small fry?"

"That's Scotch," Arthur mutters, trying to pull the cat off the table but the cat nimbly trots out of reach towards Alfred. "You'll have to be careful…I don't think he's very friendly towards strangers."

"He seems friendly to me," the blond notes, scratching behind the cat's stubby little ears. Scotch looks a little pacified, face still grumpy. "Hi, pretty kitty. You got real sharp eyes." He looks up at Arthur and suddenly the man can't move, because Alfred's eyes have hooked into his and—"Hey, they're a lot like yours. Guess it's sorta true about pets lookin' like their owners, huh?"

Apparently deciding he was bored of the conversation, the little marmalade-colored cat started lapping at Alfred's tea with a rough pink tongue. Arthur can feel his face turn red, while Alfred simply looks and starts cracking up.

"Scotch!" Arthur scolds, standing up to feebly attempt to tug the cat away. _He can't rip the cat away or Scotch won't think Arthur likes him._ "I'm sorry, he's not normally like this, really—"

"Aw, it's cool." Alfred pats Scotch on the back and Arthur tries not to think about how much that irritates him. He sighs. "So, do you enjoy your job so far?"

"Yeah. But there's a whole lot more to it than just teaching kids t-ball and the like," Alfred says seriously, scratching Scotch under the chin and a moment later a strange rumbling breaks out. Much to Arthur's dismay, he realizes that the feline is actually _purring_. "Some of 'em—especially the littler kids—cry when they uh, mess up. You don't really mess up in PE," he says reprovingly, wagging his finger at Arthur, "At least, that's what I tell 'em, but no one believes me. Guess I can't blame them," he adds thoughtfully. "It does kinda sound like one of those corny, fake-lines they feed you while you're getting your degree…."

Alfred's attention wandered to the nearby covered window, little lines creasing his brow. Arthur coughs to bring him back to the conversation.

"You, ah, were saying?"

"Hmm? Well, kids are one of the best things ever, and my kids are even more awesome than that, but sometimes they can be mean." _He has children. A wife and family_. With a sickening sinking in his stomach, Arthur regrets ever letting his rotten neighbor inside the house. "Or maybe just confused. They see a guy who can't do well in sports and if they're not funny or smart or have a lotta friends, well, their first instinct is to yuk. So, when I first start out with a new batch of kids, we typically do a whole lotta dancing."

Startled out of his bad mood, Arthur just gives Alfred a strange look. Alfred starts laughing again.

"Yep! Dancing. Sounds weird. But lemme finish: I tell 'em the goal is to look as ridiculous as possible and work up a sweat. I make sure to call out the people who REALLY look like doofuses and give 'em nice big high fives. Soon enough everyone's doing it, and no one walks away with any bad feelings."

Arthur sniffs. "What if other students were to see them at it? They'd laugh."

"Yeah well, they'll all be self-conscious little middle-schoolers soon enough," Alfred says sadly, his attention wandering back towards the covered window again. "Might as well give 'em some memories of when it was okay to be kinda goofy. So what made you decide to go into writing?"

"I was proficient at it and I enjoy it," Arthur says shortly. _Just because he's taken doesn't give you the right to be a cantankerous twat, you git!_ "You, ah, have children of your own?"

Alfred nodded, cheeks rosy. "Yeah."

"How many?"

"Fifty."

Arthur just looks at him. Alfred chortles.

"Y'know, I'm gonna have to get used to that look. Kinda already am. I mean the kids I teach-there's fifty of 'em. So that means I got fifty kids and no one screws with them, not so long as I'm around. Uh, well, technically I have eighty-six kids," Alfred adds thoughtfully. "If you count the little guys back in Idaho. Really going to miss them, but I had to pull up my bootstrings and move on, y'know?"

No. "Of course," the man returns quickly, trying to mask his pathetic relief. He already knows it's hopeless. But all the same, Arthur quickly glances at Alfred's hand. "Are you married?"

"Me? No. What about you? You live here alone?"

"With Scotch," Arthur snaps defensively.

"Swinging bachelors, the two of you?" Alfred asks teasingly before scooping Scotch into his arms. The cat still doesn't look pleased, but he accepts it, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking in its strange way. Arthur's not certain who he envies more-his neighbor, or his pet.

"I suppose." How in the world can he ask about Alfred's sexual orientation without humiliating them both? But it doesn't matter anyhow, because even if by some miracle Alfred's into men-

"Do you mind if I pull the blinds back?" his neighbor asks, looking longingly at the light still streaming from beyond the curtain. "Actually, uh, never mind. I think I should get going now. Promised my Ma I'd call her today and I still have a shit ton of unpacking to do." He sighs. "'m no good at organizing, so I have to start putting away my stuff now or my dishes are never gonna leave the boxes."

Blinking, feeling slightly hurt, Arthur pushes the emotion away and simply nods in a business-like manner, ignoring the impossible idea that he help Alfred himself. That would mean-

"Hey Iggy?" Alfred's face is suddenly close, way too close and Arthur stumbles back, stammering. "You okay? You went awfully white all of a sudden."

Moving a hand through yellow spikes, Arthur just forces the corners of his mouth and smiles, or at least makes an effort to. "Of course. Of course. I forgot that I have some work to do as well. You can let yourself out now."

"I-"

"Goodbye!" Arthur chirps, scooping Scotch out of Alfred's hands, only to have the cat scrabble angrily at his chest, fall to the ground, and bolt away. "Have a lovely afternoon, and please stop by whenever you have the opportunity!"

Those words, from his own mouth make him freeze in his tracks, suddenly horrified. But Alfred is already heading out the door, and Arthur can only watch wordlessly from his window as Alfred heads back to his own place.

* * *

Later that evening, the phonograph's going again, and Arthur forces himself to type, even if he sorely doesn't want to. Dinner that evening is a recipe far too complex for Arthur's meager skills and quite time-consuming, but he forces himself to do it anyway, regardless of whether or not the end result is still charcoal.

_What was I thinking_?

Is all the man can think as he rechecks the finished chapter another time, nitpicking for errors. Having Alfred pop over time after time would be too painful for Arthur to bear, wonderful it would be to have a companion. But the two were too different, even if Alfred was unfairly beautiful. The moment he found out Arthur was terrified of heading outside, he would likely make it his own personal mission to try and drag Arthur out under _a vast sky_-

Into that same, cold universe, with billions of eyes glaring down at him, never giving him peace-

Never safe, never safe, pressing down on him all with the weight of anvils, compacting his lungs, breathe in breathe out no air no air no fucking air to breathe-

Stomach twisting, Arthur drops to his knees and hugs himself tightly.

He doesn't want Alfred over here. The man can be a jolly little boy scout all he wants someplace else. Arthur doesn't need company, doesn't want company, has everything he needs in Scotch, who's currently napping on a pillow nearby. Alfred was different, and whilst Scotch had been curious enough to approach him this afternoon, he ultimately prefers Arthur's company. Who was Alfred to show up, uninvited, unannounced, when he as good as admitted that it hadn't been Arthur's fault for what happened yesterday?

The large cavern aches, quivers at the edges. Arthur closes his eyes.

And if Alfred doesn't make himself a pain, he'll simply disappear, unnerved and annoyed by a man he regards as a pathetic coward. It doesn't matter whether or not Arthur thinks him the loveliest creature he's ever seen-it's the fate of all gays to at least once love somebody straight.

And who even knew how old Alfred was? He looked like just a baby, fresh out of college. It would be too creepy and indecent of Arthur to express any interest.

So he shouldn't try. Wouldn't bother to hope. Besides, knowing Alfred, he'll likely meet plenty of friends soon and won't bother to visit Arthur at all. As it should be. Arthur hates Alfred. Wants to be left alone from the hideous, selfish people that pollute and spoil perfectly good air.

Nonetheless, when he hears the familiar _thunk-thunk-thunking_ sound of a basketball hitting the pavement outside, he goes again to watch Alfred, admiring the way the sweaty body rippled with muscles gleams under the moonlight.

And so, the man who never goes out watches the man who never seems to go in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Bonjour, loves! Hope you will continue to read and review. Best wishes. **

~o*oOo*o~

* * *

_The sodding hell is he doing? _

Bewildered, Arthur rubs the misty window and squints out past the great many raindrops streaming down the glass. He'd always known that he liked the rain; it reminded him of home and brought forth the soothing sounds of splashing water and a hushing wind that very much helped him to relax, was excellent background noise while he worked. But it had quickly become apparent some twenty minutes ago that his neighbor enjoyed the bad weather even more than Arthur did when he started hearing whooping noises from outside.

Now Arthur is staring incredulously at Alfred, who's twirling and dancing and gallivanting about in the rain, his laugh echoing around the quiet neighborhood, dimly through Arthur's walls. Even Scotch has hopped onto the windowsill to see the commotion, one heavy brow dryly raised in such a human fashion Arthur has to chuckle just a little.

Glass fogging up again with his breath, he wipes it again and huffs, almost tempted to open the window so that he can get a better look. Almost. What little he can make out is Alfred's spinning body, raindrops bouncing off his spread arms as if he's become a human sprinkler. Blue eyes are bright and laughing when the young man slips and falls on his rear, thoroughly soaking himself if he wasn't already. Alfred nonetheless cracks up at his own expense and shakily stands up, obviously dizzy judging by the way he starts tottering around like a drunken fly.

Still inside a warm house, Arthur rolls his eyes and _tsks_ just a little. The urge to run out and pull a rainjacket over the young man is surprisingly difficult to ignore, although of course common sense reels it in.

_What an idiot. _

Alfred's going to catch his death out there. Come tomorrow, he'll be a sniffling, feverish thing under the blankets, whereas Arthur will never get sick. Well, _occasionally_ he does, but that's probably simply because Scotch brings all sorts of nasty ailments inside. His environment is sterile.

Arthur shakes his head in pity. He's smart and secure in his fortress. Safe. Nothing can touch him here and that's how he likes it, but it's nonetheless charming to watch the classless young man start dancing again, mouth open to the heavens to collect raindrops even as he waltzes to some wild rhythm only he knows.

It almost looks like fun.

With a wistful, condescending smile, Arthur pulls up his swivel chair and rests his head on crossed arms, humming slightly as Alfred continues to pirouette in the storm, drenched clothes clinging to a rugged, dripping body.

_What a beautiful idiot. _

~o*oOo*o~

A few days later, whilst Arthur is hard at work editing an official employee policy key for a pivotal company (the morons who wrote the blasted thing very likely never passed third grade), he hears a knock at the door.

Startled, the young man ceases his furious typing, thoughts automatically going to the pen set he'd ordered just a few days ago. It's likely GPS wanting a signature, waiting for Arthur to wave them in. With a sigh, he gets up, stretches stiff muscles, and goes to push the curtains aside, expecting to see the familiar beige uniform of a deliveryman.

Instead, he sees a strange pair of cowboy boots each marked with a white star, leading up to blue jeans hugging slender, muscle-rippled limbs. All the moisture abruptly dries in Arthur's mouth as his eyes wander up and—_yes, good lord, it's him_—Alfred is staring at his door, clutching something underneath one of his arms. At the flicker of movement in the windows, he glances towards Arthur and the man only _just_ ducks out of sight in time, his heart surging with an annoying sense of joy. Gulping, his hands immediately fly towards his head as Alfred knocks again. Damn, damn, damn it all, but why did Alfred have to come over the _one _day Arthur didn't bother to brush his hair?

No matter. Feeling fluttery and giddy and only half-hating it, Arthur rushes to the anteroom, drinks in the sound of Alfred knocking. He'd love to just sit and listen to Alfred continue doing so, but if he waits for very long Alfred might think he were not home and go away. "Yes?" he calls out innocently, a little winded from his run.

The knocking pauses and then Arthur fancies he can _hear_ Alfred smiling again. It's a nice sound, makes the corners of his mouth lift up in a grudging smile too. "Hi, Iggy."

"It's Arthur, you git," Arthur corrects, face flaming a second later. Thankfully, Alfred just chuckles.

"Brought us over a few beers, if you're interested." Arthur hears the slight chink of glass against glass. "Thought maybe we could sit outside and chat for awhile—I dragged out my old lawn chairs."

Silence. It's a moment before Arthur finds his voice again, and when he does he realizes he's just about lost feeling in his legs.

"…that does sound nice," He admits reluctantly, leaning up against the wall for support and trying to ignore the unpleasant stirring in his gut, as if it now houses several writhing snakes. "But I heard it might rain again today." Blatant lie.

A moment's pause. Arthur pictures a befuddled Alfred squinting up at the blue sky, a hand shading his chiseled face. Predictable twit. "Not a cloud in the sky. 'Sides, even if it does rain, we can always duck into your place or mine…pretty sure we're waterproof."

"No," Arthur says quickly, hurriedly backing away from the door. He has to blink for a few moments to clear his head. "I'd rather not. But if you want to come inside…"

His voice softens considerably.

"Please, do so."

There's another split second of silence and for a moment Arthur thinks it's all lost, that Alfred will uneasily tell him that he suddenly remember he's forgotten something, and bolt away again. But when the doorknob begins to turn, Arthur hastily backs up and turns around, startling when something cool slides into his hand. The door closes and the Brit slowly looks up at Alfred's broad, dopey, hopelessly adorable grin, and then down at his palm, where Alfred's just placed a bottle of beer.

So much for his new 'no alcohol forevermore' vow. That lasted what, less than twenty-four hours?

"How ya doing?" Alfred asks cheerfully, yanking Arthur out of his sepia-toned reveries of the young man riding astride a magnificent white stallion in a pasture, preferably shirtless. Arthur lets out a dry chuckle as he leads Alfred to the living room, wincing at how his voice sounds like a hoarse squeak. When was the last time he'd even spoken today? He hopes he can pass it off as a cough.

"Quite well, thank you. And you?" He glances at the clock. "Just noon now….aren't you supposed to be at school?"

"Holiday for some dead-beat dead guy," Alfred says dismissively, sitting down at the table and kicking off his boots. Much to Arthur's horror, he notes that the man has unknowingly trailed mud in all over his spotless floor and tries to mentally brush it off, though it's as easy as swallowing a box of thumbtacks. "So no class today. What about you? Enjoying the day off?"

Arthur shrugs noncommittally. He hadn't even been aware that it was a holiday. "I make my own hours, so there didn't seem to be any point in not working today." With a shaking hand, he tries to unscrew the beer cap, only to have Alfred yank the bottle out of his hand and all but bust the top off by slamming it against his mahogany table. _Don't scream, don't scream._

"A-ah….thank you. I mean, I didn't really have plans today," he falters, taking a big swig of his drink and praying he doesn't look like an imbecile. "N-not like yesterday, I mean. I was _extraordinarily_ busy the day long. Exhausting, really." Yesterday, he'd worked a little and then spent the night trying to put a 600 jigsaw piece together. He'd finished it this morning at 2 a.m.

"I bet," Alfred says airily, in a sincere tone that makes Arthur feel defensive and suspicious all the same. "Those flowers of yours are looking real nice, bet weeding's a pain in the ass, though. My mom has a flower garden back home, and she'd always find a way to 'recruit' me and my brother Mattie to help her with it. I remember we used to run up the tree in the backyard and hide." He snickers softly, shakes his head. Arthur smiles wanly. Better not to tell Alfred a yard service handles all of the work.

As Alfred helps himself to a beer, Arthur swallows and blurts out: "I like your six-pack." Oh, God. It's as if someone's filled him up with hot lead and he's trying to pull his throat back out his stomach so he can stammer an apology, _please, I was just kidding, just admiring your chest in a manly fashion because I like girls too and I want to be buff or whatever the bloody hell it is these days and—_

"Yeah, I like this brand," Alfred agrees, turning over the bottle and Arthur nearly tumbles out of his seat. _Just go with it, blast you, he's just a moron_.

"How's Scotch been?" Alfred asks, looking around. "Hopefully he doesn't like alcohol as much as he likes his tea."

Arthur immediately tenses up, expecting a jab of some kind but Alfred just laughs. "Distinguished cat if I ever saw one…saw him running around outside this morning. Do you have any cats beside Scotch? I saw him romping around with this fluffy white Persian kitty."

"No, no one but Scotch," Arthur says sullenly, wondering to whom the stupid white cat belongs to and having a very good idea. "I wish I'd gotten him declawed some years ago, when it was still legal in this state."

Alfred gives him a surprised look. "But he's an outdoor cat, right? That'd make it tough for him to defend himself if he were ever in a scrap."

"I'd rather he was an indoor cat. They live longer that way," he adds quickly, about to take another draft of his drink but declining. "Less chance they'll get fleas and ticks. Eat poor birds. Or get hit by cars or hurt by dogs or whatever blasted creature they run into."

Alfred gives him a sympathetic look. "Have you lost any pets that way?"

"No, it's just…easier."

"I see." Alfred thoughtfully glances out the window, leaning back in his seat. "Well, Scotch is a smart kitty. He can look after himself out there."

"Did you have any pets, growing up?" Arthur changes the conversation again, because it's quickly becoming uncomfortable.

"Nah, because my mom's allergic to their fur. Well, we did have some goldfish once," Alfred notes. "But they didn't live very long. I fed them too much and they spontaneously combusted."

Arthur scoffs. "They did no such thing."

"Pretty much," Alfred says with an over-the-top sigh. "I've been thinking about getting a dog or something—it'd be nice to have a jogging buddy. Um," he adds awkwardly, looking at his drink and shuffling his feet. "Maybe I'll be less likely to annoy my neighbors at 6 a.m."

"Oh, never mind that, dear boy." Arthur doesn't add that a dog's incessant barking would likely drive him to criminal insanity.

"I like the way you talk," Alfred comments cheerily, out of the blue after he takes a long draft of beer. Arthur's ears turn pink.

"Well, I was a professor at one point, Alfred." He has so few opportunities to preen, he might as well take this one while he has the chance. Unfortunately, Alfred lowers his bottle, looking intrigued.

"Really? What made you quit?"

Arthur's throat tightens painfully, feels as though it's being wrung like a damp washcloth.

"….I was laid off," the man says hesitantly. "The economy," he adds, somewhat lamely, and he's all too relieved when Alfred rolls his eyes and nods in sympathy.

"Oh, geez. I'm real sorry to hear that. I remember when Mattie was laid off after the crash a couple years ago…that sucked big time. So ya decided ya'd rather write than teach?"

Arthur quickly lowers his beer bottle, looks away.

"Y-Yes. I looked for another job, but I think this suits me better. Doesn't usually pay as much, but now I have more time to do as I like. It's very…freeing, to be able to determine my own schedule and write as much as I want. I'm happy." _Sometimes_.

Alfred grins and raises his beer in a toast before taking a few hearty gulps.

"Cool, man," he says appreciatively, wiping his mouth. "Not many folks have the guts to do what they'd really like doin' for the rest of their lives. Personally, I think Mattie's a good enough hockey player that he could try out and go pro, but he says he's happy doin' his boring as hell desk job." Alfred rolls his eyes. "I don't even KNOW what my bro does…he's tried to explain it to me a million times, and I get it has something to do with taxes, but that's usually as far as Mattie gets before I'm nodding off."

Arthur's eyes wander to one of Alfred's long legs, which is currently bouncing up and down against the tiled floor. He smirks. "You can't stay still for very long, can you?"

"Hell no," Alfred agrees. "Even when I'm vegging out on the couch, my friends usually say I'm pretty jittery. Maybe it's because I need so much coffee in the mornin' to get me goin'—who knows. But maybe I've always been that way. Hell, I almost never actually sit down to eat anything unless I'm in front of the TV." He winked. "Or eating apology muffins and having a beer with my adorable new neighbor."

Arthur stiffens, and his drained bottle slips out of his limp fingers. "Don't be daft," he snaps automatically, warmth spreading from the tips of his ears to every fiber of his body.

Oh, God, he'd just insulted him. But Alfred just grins, eyes narrowing at the ends as he raises his beer bottle in a toast before guzzling it down. _Adorable. Adorable._

Alfred F. Jones thought he was adorable. _Handsome_ or _distinguished_ or _well-learned_ would have been better, but _still_.

Arthur let out a short, nervous bark of laughter, scuffing one of his shoes and hugging himself, a blasted, blushing teenage girl, for crying out loud! Thankfully Alfred seems to have the attention of a goldfish, because his eyes wander back to the kitchen window.

"So nice out today…." He muses, rudely yanking Arthur down from his drifting warm reveries. "You sure you don't wanna head to my place, or on your stoop? Get some Vitamin D?"

"No. I have allergies," Arthur says brusquely. He wishes he'd thought to close the blasted drapes this morning. Alfred gives him a funny look.

"Oh, that's too bad. Um, what to, if you don't mind me asking?"

Believe it or not, perhaps Arthur _did_ mind his asking. "A great deal of things outdoors. Bees, for one thing." It was a rotten lie, but a convincing one. "Actually, any amount of insect venom of any kind can cause me to have an anaphylactic reaction."

Alfred sucks in air through grit teeth. "Yikes. Uh, does that mean you'd die?"

"Unfortunately."

Alfred shakes his head, looking sympathetic. "Sorry, man. That really stinks. So does that mean you're afraid to come out unless it's really cold outside and all the bees are gone?"

"Yes," Arthur responds automatically and kicks himself for it. "Although I don't find myself fancying winter all that much, especially not American winters."

"I know what you mean," Alfred says wisely. "Dude, I can't STAND the cold. One of the reasons why I hated not heading to California is the godawful winters. But at least it's not so bad when you can go sledding, huh?"

Arthur just lets out a noncommittal grunt, putting his hand in his chin and gazing into space. While Alfred began prattling on about snowmen and ice skating and memories of riding down hills on trash can lids, the Brit started drifting off into sweet reveries of his own, consisting of his lovely neighbor lying gasping on Arthur's bed, hands digging into sheets. Arthur felt himself growing hot underneath his collar, still mute and blank-eyed even as he imagined Alfred begging for Arthur with swollen lips, eyes hazy and cheeks flushed with lust. Arthur's palms began to sweat. God, just how long had it been since he even masturbated? But surely indulging in a little fantasy wouldn't hurt. Because in his dark dreams, despite Alfred's muscular and more manlier physique, he'd be on the bottom and like it that way, whimpering _please, Arthur, be gentle_ and Arthur would lovingly assure his darling that he would make his first time _heavenly_ and-

"Uh...dude, what the hell? Are you feeling okay?"

He blinks; now he registers a hand on his forehead. Flushing darkly, he quickly knocks it aside. Alfred's staring at him, looking worried. Arthur nearly smacks himself.

"Ah, um, t-terribly sorry, dear boy, I just..." _Was picturing you naked, is all, kindly carry on with your nonsensical jabbering_. "Was thinking of winters I myself had as a lad." God, he made himself sound like a senile old man. "Drifted away for a bit, is all."

"You're lying," Alfred returned simply, as if discussing the weather again. Arthur went hot, then very cold. While his mouth and his brain struggled to reconnect, Alfred leaned back in his seat and scrutinized Arthur, a light frown creasing his brow.

"Iggy, I think we both know what's up here. Man, you're all red, and your forehead's dripping in sweat, though you're all pale and clammy. And you keep twitching." Alfred shook his head. "You're not feeling well, are you? Caught the bug that's going around?"

Arthur just nodded numbly.

"I knew it," Alfred muttered, mostly to himself. "This again. Fuck."

"What are you going on abo-_aaggghhh_!"

Unceremoniously, Alfred had stood up, scooped up his neighbor, who, upon regaining some of his wits, squawked and a colorful stream of obscenities started flooding from his mouth, punching Alfred's shoulder as the taller man crossed the room in three long strides. "S-son of a-conniving, idiot, fucking twat,_ put me down!_ I demand you put me down this instant!"

"Kay," Alfred said, and promptly dropped Arthur, who fell gracelessly into the sofa. Ears turning scarlet, Arthur rolled over, his entire face ruddy, undeniably furious. "What the bloody hell was _that_ for?"

Alfred was scooping up a blanket and wrapped it around the stunned author's shoulders. "Ya look horrible, if you don't mind me sayin' so."

"You're one to talk!" Arthur hissed furiously, anger only slightly dampened by the gesture. "You had no-"

But his new neighbor was already hurrying out of the room. "Be back in a sec. Stay there," he ordered, his normally cheerful voice surprisingly no nonsense. "Gonna run back to my place and get some soup. Uh, and a thermometer. I haven't used it yet though, so don't worry."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur slammed his fists against his knees in frustration. "Oh, Alfred, I don't _need_-"

Alfred turned, and though he was smiling, the look in his eyes cut Arthur short.

"Please."

_Moron_. Arthur glowered at him, but didn't move, even when Alfred headed out the room and back out the door.

* * *

~o*oOo*o~

"You're rather a persistent, annoying bastard when you want to be, aren't you?"

"I get that a lot."

Arthur snorts and stirs at his soup. Just noodles and artificial chicken guts from a can slightly modified, but he supposes it's a nice thought all the same. "You know boy, I feel just fine."

Alfred says nothing. Having expecting a joke or a chuckle, Arthur is a little taken aback when his neighbor just stares at his hands.

"It's good, Alfred, really, I don't mind eating your cooking…" He hastily takes another few spoonfuls of soup, even if there's enough garlic in the food to curl his hair and kill a coven of vampires.

Still nothing. The awful anxiety is starting to crawl back over him, settling in his throat. "Ah...is everything alright?"

Alfred shrugs, scuffing at the carpet with his stockinged foot from where he sat next to Arthur. "Yeah. Sort of. You just sounded a lot like someone else when you said that. Think I had a moment of déjà vu, is all."

"Do tell," Arthur urges, taking another spoonful and practically feeling his hair curl.

"My Ma. She's…." Alfred just shrugged, made a noise that sounded like a laugh, though there was no smile on his face. "Well, the doc says the cancer's almost gone now, so that's definitely good news. But in the beginning, she insisted she was just fine, stubborn old horse she is. Hell, even when she collapsed at Thanksgiving last year she gave us such a hard time when we finally got her to go to the hospital."

Startled, not knowing where to look, Arthur shifts uncomfortably, guilt bubbling like the gooey stew. "Your mother? Ah, that's…what a shame. What sort of cancer, if I might ask?"

"Um, breast cancer. None of us saw it comin'—I never remember her takin' a sick day in her life. Worked out, did pilates, ate right." Alfred shakes his head, normally bright eyes sober. "Gave us all a bad scare, but she's pulling through it. Still, I thought that someone ought to live a little closer to her, look in on her every now and again. She knew why I was moving here instead of San Francisco and she fussed about it, but I think she was ultimately happy." Alfred smiles again, and Arthur is relieved. "At least one of us is a little closer now. Mattie actually lives outta country, so we only ever get to see him at Christmas and whenever one of us can afford the trip."

"Did you really want to go to California, Alfred?"

Alfred grins and nods, eyes dreamy. "Yeah, baby, sunshine state! Or uh, maybe that's Florida." He scrunches up his face. "Hell, I dunno. But we lived there for awhile when I was a kid, and I was real sad when we packed up to go. Weather's always nice. Say, where do you come from?" he asks curiously, drawing his knees to his chest and turning to look at Arthur inquisitively. "I think you mentioned something 'bout it in passing—England? Think ya got an accent, too."

Arthur snorts and stirs at his soup, his yellowed reflection gazing back at him as he stares at it without seeing it at all. "Yes. I was born and raised in London." His words are crisp, to the point. "Though my father had a cottage in the countryside I loved to visit every summer. Quite lovely. Then, I decided to see the world a bit, so I left for America to study and teach abroad…and…and I just never went back," he finishes, somewhat lamely.

"Dude, that's awesome. But d'ya ever get homesick?"

"Sometimes," Arthur muses quietly, more to himself than Alfred. "Sometimes, I miss the countryside and the cottage and the library I used to visit when I was a lad and London with all its little shops and cafes and—" To his great ire, Arthur's voice catches, and he immediately starts spooning soup into his mouth, infuriated with himself. Alfred tentatively touches his shoulder and he crankily shrugs it off.

"Well, now I feel kinda lousy," Alfred sighs, leaning back against the sofa. "Sorry, man. Maybe ya can visit real soon and you'll feel better. But maybe we should just throw ourselves a good old-fashioned pity party and do nothing the rest of the day. Maybe we could throw in a nice old bad film in, huh?"

"You're ridiculous," Arthur says snidely, though he certainly has no object to the idea. Even when Alfred grins at him and hurries home to procure a tape.

~o*oOo*o~

"You feelin' better now?"

"Much, thank you."

Alfred takes a great big handful of cheesy corn puffs from a nearby ball—heavens, where did this prat learn manners, if indeed he ever learned at all?—before glancing back at the screen, munching contently as a colossal sludge monster kicked aside a building that suspiciously resembles Styrofoam.

The curtains have been drawn again, and the sun's likely setting by now, considering they've gotten through what feels like four wretched hours of _Muck Monster, Muck Monster II: Revenge of the Muck Monster,_ and now _Muck Monster: Reborn_. It can't intrude on their little movie marathon, poke in when it was not wanted and siphon Alfred away. His neighbor is warmly pressed against his side, wrapped in a blanket, comically wincing or exclaiming at all the right (wrong) moments, sometimes going so far as to duck his head under the covers when the hero narrowly avoided getting his head ripped off for the ninth or tenth time. Baffled, Arthur can't deny that it's somewhat entertaining, endearing even.

It feels nice, just sitting here and snacking with a chum. He feels like a few of his brain cells are committing suicide just by watching this garbage, but for the first time in a long while, he doesn't feel like drinking the hours away, is content to just enjoy the moment.

_You're adorable_.

Sinking beneath his blankets so that only his eyes peeked out, for the first time in a long while, Arthur smiles, an earnest, true smile.

* * *

***Rolls eyes* Wow. Corny. Corno. This is now officially rated R, for Corno. Ha! Do you get it? ...*Looks around silent audience* Anyone? Well, ha. Needed a little fluff to break my emo-bunny streak. Anyhoodle, hopefully see you later, please review! Without you guys, my stories and I are nothing at all.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hiya! :D Hope everyone is well. Right now I have a million things I ought to be doing, but instead I'm hiding from the world at large in my closet (am not kidding, it's nice and cozy in here and away from crazy roomies) with a sandwich. I think I might just develop some Arthur-like tendencies if I keep this up...T_T  
Well, more so than I already have.  
**

***Hisses* The light...it burns us, precious...**

**In a couple of weeks, I think I'll be finished with two of my more long-time projects, _Brother Knows Best_ and _Psycho_. After that, I think I'd like to get back to my poor and neglected Danny Phantom stories, but I will be posting on my profile soon the descriptions of some story ideas I've been considering for some time. If you have a spare moment, please feel free to take a look and vote on my poll. If there's something that you'd like to see, send me a PM! Chatting is fun and I value your input. **

**Reviews are my fuel, and I'm a Hummer. :p So...yeah, please review, darlings. **

~o*oOo*o~

* * *

When Arthur wakes up the next day, it's hard for him to be upset at the annoying finger of sunshine that persistently peeks its way through the drapes and somehow directly lands on his face, making him see red from behind his closed eyelids. He fidgets, thinks about sinking beneath the blankets and nodding off again, but he doesn't feel sleepy. He doesn't especially care about moving, either, not when his entire body feels so relaxed, so deep within the warmth and comfort of his feather bed. His mouth for once doesn't have a dry, acrid taste, and his head is clear.

It's been awhile since he's woken up so lucid. He very normally relies on at least one or two stiff drinks a night to help him sleep-or rather, pass out- because he doesn't trust medicinal sleeping aids, which likely kill or irrevocably damage more people than they help. But he isn't going to dwell on unpleasantries today, because for the first time in a long while, Arthur Kirkland is _happy. _

After awhile, it grows a little too hot under the covers and he gets up with no complaint, pausing on his way to the bathroom and looking at his reflection in the mirror. For some reason or another his reflection looks nicer than it usually does, messy hair now not looking stringy or bedraggled but slightly charming in its untidiness. His eyes, which had unnerved so many of his classmates when he was young and inspired them to call him Medusa, are now bright, bright and hopeful and warm, not piercing and pea-soup colored.

_After the Muck Monster was defeated for the third and final time (probably), Alfred yawned and checked his watch, starting so badly he nearly fell off the couch, dislodging Arthur from his comfortable perch on as much of Alfred's shoulder as he dared to lean against._

_"Dude, it's already eleven thirty! Aw, man, sorry for gate-crashing on your day off buddy, but thanks for having me." Alfred slowly stood up with a groan and stretched quite a ways back—flexible _and_ muscular, well, that hardly was fair—"Let's do it again sometime." _

_"I…I had a lovely time, too. Perhaps you would like to drop over again soon?"_

_"Sure thing, pal! G'night." _

_Adorable_. Arthur smiles at his reflection in the mirror, wonders if Alfred will be over again today. Doesn't seem likely, considering the boy has school today and just saw Arthur yesterday, but there's enough satisfaction in Arthur to keep him buoyant on his feet for the rest of the day. If not the week. Adorable. Annoying all the more so by how endearing it is.

It occurs to him that he doesn't know Alfred's number, doesn't have a means of contacting him. There never seemed any point in trying to get an email address or anything; Alfred might think it a weird formality considering they live but a hop, skip and a jump away from each other. His chest tightens and a bit of the old hardness appears on the writer's face before he heads off to the shower.

_Easy there, old sport_. He can't forget who he is. Who Alfred is. What Alfred will in great likelihood do when he discovers _what_ Arthur is. _If_ he does, and as far as he can control it, his neighbor will stay in the dark.

Sadness flickers into his ugly green eyes. More likely than not that will mean he and Alfred won't be able to be…a thing, but he won't dwell on it. It's enough to have someone who will stand to visit every now and again on a lark.

_Adorable._ Still, he'll hold onto that one.

After a relaxing wash, he changes and heads into the kitchen to make breakfast. But to his surprise his companion is not prowling around his bowl, nudging it insistently.

"Scotch?" Well, it's a change, but the cat will eat when he'll damn well wants to. He fills up the bowl, only to recall that he hadn't once heard Scotch meow for his dinner last night.

His train of thought hits a penny on the railroad track and abruptly derails; the milk jug slips out of limp fingers, hits the floor and smashes. The cold substance splatters all over him, starts seeping all over his kitchen floor, but doesn't even note when it soaks into his new loafers.

"Scotch?" He asks again, his normally low, husky voice very high. Well, it's not like his dear pet hasn't spent a night away from the house before, but how did he not notice? Was the cat pitifully meowing in hunger while Arthur basked in the warmth of human company and monstrously absurd television?

Of course not. Maybe. Feeling a hot rush of shame, he hurries back to his bedroom, damp _shoes squish-squish-squishing_ all over the carpet. Upon tugging aside his blankets and pillows and finding nothing, Arthur immediately ducks.

"Are you hiding underneath the bed, you silly little thing?"

There is no flash of green; the cat is not here. Flummoxed, Arthur heads back to his closet (his milky shoes squish-squishing all over the rug), and then to the bathroom, where he glances behind the toilet on a whim. More likely than not the cat hasn't clamored into the bathtub, but he still anxiously rips the shower curtain aside, anyway.

"Where are you?" Arthur muses softly, rather than calling outright. Glancing down at the mess he is, he curses and starts stripping, reflecting on all the cleaning up he has to do from last night's fun. _Mud on the floor, crumbs in the carpet_-he'll probably find his Scotch sleeping underneath some furniture or something. Or perhaps he'll wander in around lunchtime. The paperwork he needs to finish today can wait a little longer. Scotch can't.

~*oOo*~

He gets an irate message from one of his contractors later that night on his message machine, but Arthur is too harried to care. The sun is already sinking, and while he has literally torn the house apart, scrubbed it and put it together again until everything is picturesque and gleaming, but there is still no sign of his cat. Every room has been scoured, every object overturned, and as an exhausted Arthur sinks onto a sofa, eyes-lidded, he's forced to confront what he's been studiously denying the long day:

Scotch can't be in here. The cat is outside. Very possibly lost. Hurt. Scared. And it's all his fault. He left a mess in the house-Alfred left a mess-and Alfred made him forget his responsibilities. Poor, poor Scotch, probably unnerved by his lack of companionship, the introduction of a stranger who talks too loudly and tracks in dirt.

_But he wouldn't have simply...run away?_

Eyes red, Arthur slowly rubs his temples, at a loss as to what to do. He ought to...no, he _can't_, he can't, he can't go outside or he will die. No, he won't, he knows he won't but yet he WILL, exposed. Scotch can slide in and out wherever he pleases like a will o' the wisp, but Arthur, dumb and clumsy and uncertain and terrified Arthur-will be noticed immediately. The sky's pressure will collapse on him and he'll be crushed, under a thousand eyes, a million eyes-

After awhile, he slowly gets up and moves, like a very old man, to the anteroom, but not without preparing a bowl of sardines first. He tentatively pushes the bowl near the cat door, timid as an acolyte offering some virgin flesh to a seven-mouthed beast, and then hastily retreats to the safety of the stairs, settling down on the bottom step and waits, waits, waits.

He waits all night, and at every little brush, every little swing of the pet door, he starts, hopes, and again comes a warm flurry of anticipation. But no Scotch ventures in, and it's with a very sore back he moves to his bed at four, bitterly disappointed.

* * *

The next afternoon finds Arthur ripping down all the coats and jackets in his closet—why he is doing this, he doesn't know—and a knocking comes at his door. At first, he ignores it, thinking that it's just a particularly dumb or illiterate solicitor of some kind, but then recalls that Scotch wears a collar with his address engraved on it. Perhaps a good Samaritan came to return the poor creature home?

Hoping beyond hope, Arthur darts into the anteroom, stockinged feet slipping to a stop as he approaches the door itself. He was in such a rush he forgot to check the window to see whom it might be; damn it all, why didn't he ever get that stupid peephole installed? He was too cheap for his own good.

"Yes?" He calls out cautiously. "Who is it?"

The knocking pauses. "Hey, Artie!"

"My name is Arthur, you little prat." Arthur sighs, not sure whether to be pleased or unhappy with his neighbor's reappearance. "Alfred, have you seen my cat?"

"Scotch? Uh, no, sorry," Alfred returns uncertainly. Gnawing at his lip, Arthur leans his head against his fist. _Well, some bloody help _you_ are_. He's about to tell him that today's not a good time to play when Alfred speaks up again. "Haven't seen him since day before yesterday…he was outside, snoozin' in the sun. Uh, everything okay?"

"You can come in," Arthur says resignedly, turning away and hurrying for the steps when the doorknob starts to jiggle. "I can't find Scotch anywhere. Sometime while you were over last, he disappeared." He hopes he kept the bitter note of accusation out of his voice. "Never came home."

"Yikes! I'm real sorry, Arthur. Is this unusual behavior for him?"

_Obviously, you insufferable dolt, otherwise I wouldn't be panicking like this_. Scowling, Arthur strides back into his room, and proceeds to start ripping the place apart again.

"Well, he's wearin' his collar, right?" Alfred asks bemusedly, ducking as a pillow goes flying across the living room. "Hopefully someone'll find him and…"

"You don't understand," Arthur snarls, because there's no way in hell a man like Alfred can _possibly _understand. "No one will go through the trouble of returning him! They'll strip him of his collar and throw him in the pound!"

He doesn't pause to ascertain Alfred's reaction, but a second later, his neighbor certainly sounds more serious. "Have you been out looking for him? Checked all his hidey-holes? Called the shelter?"

"….yes," Arthur lies, wringing his hands. Oh, he's a disgrace to pet owners everywhere. He ought to have at least called animal services, even if they likely would do nothing to help him.

"I'll take a quick run around the block, if you like," Alfred offers. "See if he happens to be around?"

It feels as if fifty pounds have been taken off Arthur's shoulders, and the older man lets out a long sigh of relief. "Oh, _would_ you? That would be of such help."

"Course. I'll keep my eyes open, and as soon as I find him, I'll bring him back."

"Thank-" But he already hears a door slamming. Normally Arthur would have agonized over what this meant-obviously it could only mean that Alfred resented him for his rudeness and wanted to get out quickly-but it hardly seemed to matter today. _Please, please, mean what you said._ _Come back with him. Come back_.

Cursing, after his room is a shambles he hurries to overturn all of his furniture. Scotch could be in great danger. The poor cat might have been kidnapped by some filthy animal hoarder with thirty-six felines crammed into a small apartment. He might have traipsed into a yard with a vicious dog or gotten hopelessly lost. He'd read somewhere that occasionally people will leave out dishes of poisoned food to reduce the growing stray population. Even if the cat was used to the very best and would likely turn his nose up at it, what if his missing meals made him feral with hunger?

_Scotch, where are you_?

What would Alfred tell him, if he brought back Scotch's dead body in his arms? _'Sorry, man, but you can always get another cat?'_ His eyes flashed venomously. No. He _could not_ get another _fucking_ cat, and Alfred, being the imbecile that he was, would never understand why Arthur would have to spend the rest of his days alone, as he should have been doing. He ought to have settled with Scotch's companionship, infrequent as it was, rather than try to develop a hopeless one with Alfred. What could he have expected?

_Were you feeling lonely_?

He sinks to his knees and grits his teeth, hands twisting the roots of his hair, his feverish eyes narrowed and shining.

So stupid. Over a cat. A fucking cat. There are millions of those, billions. But only one living creature from his old life.

_Why did you run? Did I not give you everything you needed? I'm so sorry._

He slowly gets up again, doesn't know what to do. He can't keep looking, because Scotch is not in here and this is only hurting him, but he can't do _nothing_, either.

Arthur calls one shelter. No cats that carry Scotch's ID tags. Tries another. Nothing. Tries all four in a forty mile radius, and most if not all of them suggest that he start hanging signs.

He collapses on the sofa, curling up into a fetal position. The definition of pathetic.

_I won't let Alfred in anymore if he troubles you so much. Please forgive me_.

Forty-five minutes later, Alfred walks in, finding his neighbor a crumpled ball staring vacantly into space. Dazed green eyes turn hopefully upward at the sound of his footstep. "Any—"

"Nope," Alfred says sadly, cringing at whatever spasm momentarily zips across Arthur's face. "If he's missing for another day, I'll start making signs and stuff. Someone's got to have seen him."

Arthur just nods. Alfred looks at his shoes, bites his lip, looks like he were about to say something, and then tries again:

"Are you gonna be okay, Artie?"

_No._

"Hey. It'll be fine," Alfred says kindly, settling down beside the despondent man. "If Scotch is anything like his owner, he's resourceful, smart enough to stay outta a car's way. He's probably just havin' some little adventure that's taking a little longer than he expected it to."

"Why did you drop by?" It's probably a rude question, but he doesn't care. Anything to keep his mind off things.

"Hm? Oh, no reason. I was just…wondering if you'd like to get a bite to eat with me tonight. One of my pupils is the son of the owner of a Greek restaurant, and he started braggin' that his Mom and Pop's cooking is better than anything else in the world, so I decided to go and see for myself." A wistful smile. "But hey, I totally get it if you want to stay here and keep an eye out for your kitty."

Gay. That was beyond a gay statement. If Arthur weren't so miserable, he might've smiled. Felt happiness, a vague sadness or yearning, impossible wishfulness, anything other than this gaping void he's suddenly become.

"That does sound good. But I want to stay here. Just in case Scotch comes back." He wets his lips and pauses before going on, voice a timid croak. "He's the only family I have here, Alfred. I couldn't bear it if something happened to him."

The touch at his knee makes him start, but Arthur can hardly say that it's unwelcome. Nor that the friendliness (that's in all likelihood insincere), but still sounds so genuine isn't craved:

"Hey man, I'm here for you."

And for a foolish moment Arthur entertains burying his face in Alfred's chest but decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

~*oOo*~

_Just for a moment. If I come outside, he's bound to come running if he can._

_Then why won't he come home already?_

Alfred left a few hours ago, promising to send him any word of Scotch's appearance, but if you wanted a task done right, you did it yourself. Not that Arthur actually handled any physical task outside his household beyond paying someone to do it, but _still_.

Hot with fear underneath the trench coat he wears, making his back slick with sweat, Arthur warily eyes his front door, fighting back pangs of revulsion. Oh, God. He was really going to do this, wasn't he? Of course he was. He has to. Just for a few minutes. He can do that much, right?

It feels like his heart has slowly oozed its way up his windpipe and lodges itself there when he wraps his hand around the handle, gruffly clears his throat. Now or never. "Scotch needs you. You worthless, hideous, heartless bastard—just do it. Alfred can. Anyone can. L-little children c-can..."

But he can't. He won't. And that's why he deserves to be alone.

Hot tears burning in his eyes, Arthur drops to his knees, thinks about at least peeking out the small pet door-and he can't even do that much.

_I want to die._

"Scotch…"

Christ. He is crying. Tears are flooding down his face and it's hard to say what keeps his shoulders trembling, the cries or the near-maniacal laughter.

~*oOo*~

* * *

When Arthur wakes up, it's to the sound of birds chirping sleepily outside and of a fist hammering at his door. Brow wrinkling, Arthur groans, dimly wondering what the hell is going on. Maybe the entire neighborhood is ablaze. It'd better be, for someone to come knocking at such an ungodly hour. Not that he'll actually do anything about it.

"Arthur! Arthur, open up! I have Scotch! Er, the cat, not booze scotch, sorry!"

Arthur's eyes fly open, and for a moment he's transported in time back to when he was a small child racing down the stairs at Christmas time. In a flash he's up.

"Come in!" He exclaims, seizing his dressing gown and tearing out the door as if the devil himself is at his heels. "Alfred, come in!"

He hears the door open, close, and he runs into the anteroom only to stop dead, eyes widening in horror. _"Scotch!"_

"He's okay," Alfred soothes, swaying just a little on his feet, yawning hugely. "Right now he's still snoozing, but he should be awake in two or three hours, give or take."

Ignoring the man's words, Arthur steps forward and takes the little bundle out of his arms, fingers immediately flying to the side of the cat's neck, and it's with a warm rush of joy he feels a pulse dutifully thumping beneath the fur. But the orange and white Scottish fold is still motionless in his arms, still even when Arthur cautiously moves aside the blanket and finds a thick cast set around one of the cat's legs.

"How…." Oh, God. He touches a rectangular bald spot on one of Scotch's legs; why would anyone _shave_ a cat? "Why…."

"I was heading to the grocery store last night," Alfred explains wearily, leaning up against the wall with a sigh. "And the car in front of me was zooming down the street like a maniac after I saw it'd hit something, something that flew over to the side of the road and hit the curb."

The bottom drops out of Arthur's stomach. "Slowed down and saw it was Scotch….poor baby! That son of a bitch didn't even stop!" The man sullenly punched the wall, muttering something profane under his breath. "He just sped on like it was nothing…wish I'd gotten the license plate number, woulda gotten that bastard arrested! You can do time for this kind of shit, can't you?"

Arthur just continues to stare at him, as if a dinosaur has come to his door bearing flowers.

"I wanted to call you, but I didn't have your number, and Scotch was lookin' in a pretty bad way, what with a bone sticking straight out his leg and all." _Hell._ His knee-buckling relief giving away to a cold, scalding fury, Arthur decides he was going to drag out his old book on magic and curse someone to mutilation for this one.

"So I wrapped him up in an old beach towel and drove him to the nearby animal hospital." Alfred cusses. "Guess what? They're only open two to five on Sundays. Hey, no problem, s'not like I have a cat with me that'll die soon if no one helps it! If I get my legs crushed by a passing car, I should just SUCK IT UP because all the doctors and nurses gotta go home and sleep!" He shakes his head. "Jesus Christ. Anyhoo, I drove to the other animal hospital in Trenton, and they weren't actually open either, so I looked up one of their vets' home numbers—"

"Excuse me?" Arthur asks weakly. Alfred shrugs, digging at his eye with his palm in a circular motion.

"She was pretty confused at first, tried tellin' me to wait until tomorrow, to just leave the cat alone and give him some ice, or some bullshit. Then I started yelling, and then I started pleading, and it all got real bad from there." He grins ruefully. "I was practically on my knees, and I guess she finally took pity on me, cause I got her to come over while she was still in her jammas. Hey, d'ya ever think the scrubs that doctors and vets wear are actually just old jammas so they can sleep in their offices?"

"Scotch, Alfred. What happened next?" Who the hell says 'jammas' anyway, even in the states? "You're certain he'll be fine?"

"Right," his neighbor returns sheepishly, pulling out a plastic bottle from his jacket pocket and handing to Arthur. "That's his prescription. Long story short, he's gonna need a pain pill every day for the next week when the anesthetic wears off. And obviously he's gonna have to take it real nice and easy, so you may want to keep him inside." No problem with that; Arthur intends on boarding up the pet door as soon as possible. "They say it's going to be awhile before that broken leg of his heals, and they might have to do more surgery on him later on, but I think he'll be fine." He ruffles the unresisting cat's body playfully, something the Fold wouldn't have allowed whilst he was awake. "You're a real tough cat, aren't you, buddy?"

Arthur lets out a dry, incredulous chuckle, pressing a kiss on Scotch's flat little ears and closing his eyes. This is beyond gay, beyond beautiful. _"Thank you."_ He stammers fervently.

Alfred just smiles slightly before turning for the door, blinking blearily. Coming down his high just a little, Arthur seizes his neighbor by the wrist before he can reach for the door. "W-wait! What did they charge for the operation?"

"Hmm? Oh, um…" He awkwardly scratches his head, and seems very interested in admiring the tiled floor. "Not much. It's cool."

"Don't be ridiculous. Give me the bill." _And a chance for me to stuff several twenty dollar bills in your pocket before I drag your ass to my room. _

"Nah, we're neighbors! Least I can do, 'sides, I'm not just going to sit on my ass while-"

"Alfred," Arthur interrupts, Tired of This Bullshit. "What did the bill come to?"

"She uh, did it out of the goodness of her heart?" Alfred squeaks. Arthur frowns at him, and then closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefingers.

"Why don't you sit down for awhile?" He knows it's hardly fair to keep the exhausted man, but honestly, how much sleep can Alfred squeeze in before he has to get ready for work? "School doesn't start for another hour or so, right? Let me make you some tea."

"Sure. That's cool." The young man shuffles in after Arthur, yawning once again before collapsing into an armchair, legs dangling over the sides.

* * *

Scotch doesn't leave his arms whilst Arthur boils the water, even though it makes the task of making breakfast somewhat awkward. He wonders just how long the cat will stay asleep, feels strangely guilty for almost enjoying it. Even if Scotch isn't very responsive at the moment, it's nice to simply hold him again without him putting up his customary resistance.

He'll have to spoil the poor thing stupid as it heals, wonders how different the creature might be.

When the tea is finished settling Arthur dumps half the sugar bowl into Alfred's cup and places it on a tray with biscuits, turns and discovers that the man has fallen asleep, half his body spilling out the chair, wrinkled t-shirt pushed up and toned stomach exposed. Shaking his head and tutting, he clumsily sets it down on the table beside Alfred and notices a white piece of paper sticking out of his pocket. Curious, he pulls it out, eyes scanning the charges. Just as he thought; it's the receipt. But what's the damage?

One thousand, three hundred. _Ouch_. Well, it's not as if he's not willing to pay more for his precious pet's safety, but _still_. Alfred was willing to try and pay for an animal's operation, one that wasn't even his, with a gym teacher's salary?

Blinking, Arthur gawks at the receipt, at his own hands, stiffening and not knowing where to look.

People like Alfred simply don't _exist_ outside fairy tales. Yet here he is, snoring in Arthur's favorite chair, one a tad too small for his long, muscled frame.

Feeling a lump grow in his throat, Arthur hesitantly reaches out and touches the untidy hair, ruffling it fondly, blushing darkly. It's then and there he has an epiphany:

_I do not want this man to go back outside. _

Alfred's good. _Too good_. And good people are liable to get hurt, and badly. Arthur starts nibbling on the inside of his lip, wondering if he can convince Alfred to just call in sick, to just stay over here and relax for the day…then what? How can he tether Alfred (beyond literally tying him up in a chair) to this house and safety in a way that was legal, wasn't manipulative, in a healthy and normal fashion Alfred would agree to follow?

It's impossible. Would never work. But he has to protect this man from becoming like himself. It was going to happen, because Alfred was in a similar position to himself when he..._That can't happen. It won't happen_.

The boy's eyes unexpectedly pop open, and Arthur almost jumps. But Alfred certainly does as he swings his wrist to eye-level and falls out the chair with a yelp, Arthur taking advantage of the confusion by hurriedly stuffing the bill in his own pocket.

"Crap! I gotta get ready!"

"I've made breakfast," Arthur says quickly, wanting to delay Alfred's leaving for as long as possible. Hopefully Alfred doesn't mind if his eggs are a little brown or need to be chiseled from the frying pan.

"Aw, nah, no thanks." He replies easily, rolling from his back to his stomach before hopping to his feet. "I live right next door. Gotta head over there and grab some things anyhow before I can go…"

"At least have some coffee." He'd bought some via his online grocery in the off-chance the man ever came back. Halfway out the room, Alfred halts and considers it for a second.

"Well, I never did buy some more, that's why I went last night…" Lovely, more shame! Arthur couldn't get enough of it. "That'd be nice. Hm, if I get ready now and jog there, should be almost right on time..."

He turns to Arthur with his moronic, flashing smile that makes Arthur feel quivery. "Back in a sec, okay?"

And Alfred's gone. Befuddled, Arthur stands there stupidly for a few moments before picking up Alfred's forgotten, overly sweet beverage with a groan. Well, he did hate waste...he downs it, cringes as his brain cries out in sugar shock, and goes to pour more water from the kettle into a new mug. By the time he's stirred the coffee in and glanced up, Alfred is standing in the living room again, cleanly dressed.

"That was quick."

"Eh, I strip fast," Alfred says light-heartedly and for a foolish second Arthur's mind is warped to another plane entirely outside their conversation. "Ooh, thanks. I'm kind of worthless unless I have at least one cup in the morning. And the stuff they have in the teacher's lounge tastes like absolute death. Oh," he adds, blinking as if he's just remembered something inherently related to the conversation. "By the way, I think I need to get a cat sometime this week."

Arthur blinks, taken aback. "That's…prompt."

Alfred grins down at him. "After Scotch's operation, the vet lady offered to take me to the animal shelter next store. Really cool, getting to go in after hours! Found a real sweet, pretty kitty while I was there. Wittle kitten," he coos teasingly, and Arthur rolls his eyes and huffs in half-exasperation, half-amusement as he shakes his head. The vet knew fresh meat when she smelled it, and the woman had gotten him hook, line and sinker.

"The vet said I might wanna keep him as an indoor cat," Alfred comments thoughtfully, taking a swig of coffee before stretching sore muscles with a groan. "If he goes out into a street and a car comes up behind him…he won't be able to hear it coming." He blinks. "Heck, it actually can't see anything just yet either. Too young."

"The cat you want is deaf?" Why is he surprised anymore?

Alfred bobs his head, grinning the idiot grin Arthur loves. "Yeah! Did you know that a lotta deaf cats have white fur and blue eyes? That's what this one looks like. Well, he will when he actually opens his eyes, which he hasn't done yet." He takes another glance at his watch and about spills coffee all over himself. "Damn! Gonna be late!" He chugs the dark brown mixture down, lets out a long "Aaaah"ing sound of approval. "See you later!"

"Wait!" Arthur cries.

Looking surprised, Alfred turns and Arthur's stomach turns to ice.

"I…I can't thank you enough for coming to Scotch's aid." He gestures helplessly to the still unconscious feline in his arms.

"Aw, it ain't nothing big, Iggy," Alfred says reasonably, either overlooking or not noticing the blood vessel that just popped in Arthur's eye from the butchered grammar or the stupid nickname. "Scotch's okay. You're happy now. Dat's all that matters."

Blank, Arthur just stares at him for a few split seconds before the bubbling inside escalates to a boil and his face slowly begins to turn red. _Oh, heavens, he's being serious_. He coughs, hoping to waylay his inevitable melting by a few moments.

"Come to supper?" He hopes it sounds like a careless invitation from a friendly neighbor rather than a fanatic, wheezing plea from some pitiful nerd. "I-If you're free sometime this week….Scotch and I would be more than…more than pleased to have you."

To his profound relief, Alfred beams and nods. "Dude, sounds awesome! Uh, I'm free Sunday night, so I'll bring cake! That okay with you?"

"Of course."

"It's a date, then." He heads for the door and Arthur stumbles after him in a daze. _It's a date, it's date, it's a...anyone can say that, doesn't mean anything-_

"Ah...s-something I'm curious about, Alfred….w-when is your birthday?"

He closes his eyes when the front door opens and a rush of cool morning air flutters over him.

"July 4th. Bye, Arthur! See ya soon!"

Arthur's eyes snap open again. "But I meant the-"

SLAM! The door falls shut again and Arthur is suddenly alone again in the anteroom. _Idiot boy_. Figures that he'd be born on such a big-to-do day in America, with all the bells and whistles and fireworks...

The latter Arthur hasn't seen for several years, though he can usually hear the explosions going off from a distance.

Shaking his head again and snorting, he heads back to the kitchen, where breakfast for two has been laid out and sits down at his usual seat, very gently lays his precious cat on the opposite side. When was the last time he ate? He feels ravenous all of a sudden, and very sleepy.

Despite his hunger he only finishes off half his plate before wandering back to his bedroom, composing a comfortable little bed of blankets and pillows for Scotch to rest on, being immaculately careful with the injured limb. There'll be hell to pay with his clients for missing another day of work, but he can't honestly bring himself to care at the moment.

"What do I do, Scotch?" he asks the still-sleeping cat wearily, sliding underneath his pillows. "I feel like a bloody teenage girl, but..." He wavers. "What the deuce do I do if he doesn't want me? What do I do if he does?"

Scotch of course does not answer. Exhaling and stroking his companion affectionately, he sinks back beneath the cool comforters and starts contemplating recipes. Why didn't he ask what Alfred likes, even though Arthur has the strangest impression that _'everything'_ probably fits the venue? Goodness, when was the last time he cooked for anyone? What did he make? Italian? Mexican? Traditional English food? Did he order in or was that too artificial and cold for the man who'd acted the proverbial Lassie? He gets a sudden image of a grinning, drooling golden retriever with its paws up in the air, stick in its mouth.

He turns on his side. First things first. One way or another, he'll have to make this a night to remember. Fun. He could do...fun. He does it on occasion. He has to.

If Arthur can't go outside, he'll just have to find another way to keep Alfred in.

* * *

**~*oOo*~**

**Sorry for all the spacing. :p And another sappy chapter. **

**I would LOVE it if my relationship stories were a little more casual and relaxed...no, Arthur is not contemplating tying Alfred up in the basement or anything. He's just a normal guy who's been lonely for a real long time. **

**Why are there always cats in my stories I don't even **

**Review, darlings! See that space below? You know you want to. Join the dark side, where we serve sandwiches and pink lemonade with hugs.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello, my lovelings. Forgive me for taking so long to update anything...recently became an aunt to a beautiful little boy, so I want to hop the train a lot and see him! And I have finals/homework/a job to get/occasional depression/Cupcake Wars….so yeah. Most of it's just been me degenerating into a worthless sack of crap. But I do have some updates this week, so hopefully that will somewhat make up for lost time. **

**Word of thanks to darling Palmtreeboulevard for her lovely fanart. Check out her profile page on DeviantArt sometime-it's very good stuff!  
**

**This (long) chapter is a little silly and strange and likely to make you seriously facepalm, but I hope you enjoy anyhow :) Au revoir, and please review! *huggles***

~o*oOo*o~

* * *

If five a.m. were a person, Arthur would very much like to watch from his window with a pair of binoculars as they were dragged into the street and shot.

Nonetheless, come early Sunday morning his eyes open as suddenly as if a siren has started wailing by his ear, and the overt alertness he feels in the dark tells him that there's no chance of going back to sleep. Hardly bushy-tailed but certainly bright-eyed, he slithers out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom, bumping into the wall once or twice.

He knows that it's more than a little silly to be up so soon—ridiculous that he doesn't wait until the shower water is warm before he trudges underneath it, cursing as ice cold water waterfalls dribbles down his chest, back. But after near-excruciating effort and much hemming and hawing over the past few days, a process that ended only eleven thirty last night—he's finally choreographed this day to a hair. _A hair_. If even a hurricane should break out this evening, he's more than aptly prepared.

Actually, though the weather forecast will be perfect, he's indulged in a couple of fantasies where the weather is so dangerous Alfred doesn't even dare to step outside and take the few steps to get to his own home. The two are huddled in a closet (not a metaphorical one) and clutching each other for dear life as they ride out the howling storm together. What followed _that_ actually wound up in his online storybase, much to the approval of most of his female fans.

Inviting Alfred over for dinner had been a spur of the moment decision, one that had left Arthur more than a little dazed when he'd woken up and remembered exactly what he'd done. But it would be rude to back out entirely, especially because he owes the blasted boy too much.

At least he had a time buffer to prepare, and that helped with the anxiety pangs somewhat. Enjoyable though they were, Alfred's sporadic visits always put him on the spot and made him feel gut-wrenchingly nervous because they weren't...well...

_Weren't what_? Scrubbing some expensive new shampoo into the roots of his hair (_probably too creepy a question to ask Alfred what sort of nice shampoo he uses_), Arthur pauses and thinks the matter over. Whenever he or one of his students wanted to have a meeting, he almost never allowed them to meet at once, even if both parties were free at the moment and it was the most convenient decision. No; his students often griped about the fact that they always had to schedule a meeting at least two or three days beforehand, and even some of his colleagues were disgruntled at the fact that he never operated with "open office hours."

Even if the visit were for something trivial like a missed quiz or even a friendly chat, he needed to know about it hours-days-in advance. It...it wasn't...it's just...it simply_ is_, or rather _was_ his way. He knew what to expect and there was control, _Arthur_ had control, and he could almost never be put on the spot. If they wanted letters of recommendation, he could have them ready then and there and turn them away almost immediately, satisfied. If other English or Philosophy professors wanted a paper from him, then he could type madly away for a night or two and have it perfect in its final draft with no fanfare. Only approval.

That one time he'd grumpily allowed that tearful girl to come in without an appointment after she had been hammering at his locked door for what had to be thirty minutes had ended in disaster. Absolute _disaster_, and he had been ruined because of it.

He isn't anal, or one of those asinine-and-comically-worried-morons you see in comedies who after a series of stupid misadventures learn _golly, there's bollocks to be afraid of! _Obviously any moron who writes consolation cards can tell you that almost inevitably something will take you by surprise, but he can contemplate any scenario, feasible or infeasible, without blinking an eye and plan in advance if it looks like it'll spoil things. For God's sakes, he even has a bomb shelter in his basement, though to his credit that had come with the old house.

Being ready at every interval at the night means no awkwardness, only pleasure_. _The stakes are only higher now because it's someone he actually likes.

Admittedly, Alfred is a little difficult to prepare for because Arthur still doesn't know him that well and he was...exotic. Very appealing, particularly when Arthur can watch his shirtless young neighbor mow the lawn, certainly intriguing, but also _terrifying _because Alfred is capable of anything. At least in principle.

His company was...well, perhaps it's because Arthur's done without human company for a very long time that it seems so off, but he's leaning more towards the fact that Alfred is simply _weird_. Albeit one of the nicest people he's ever met, which may be precisely why he's such an oddball; why spend an evening with him, who likely reminds him of his grandfather?

It's temporary, of course; he's likely a fix until Alfred makes some new and better friends he can ride dirt bikes with. He ought not to have bothered preparing as much as he has, but if there's the slightest sliver of hope that he can make Alfred F. Jones _want_ to be in his house with him, Arthur will seize a razor-sharp thread and cut his hand open gripping it.

Though he's very pleased that he can for once anticipate Alfred's coming and shape the night as he wished-damn it, he needs that number-it had at first driven him to a near-frenzy, because he still doesn't know what the dinner is supposed to _be._ Obviously a thank-you, but of what _sort_?

Applying perhaps half a bottle of conditioner in his hair (_doesn't smell as nice as the telly said it would), _it makes him more than a little anxious that he still doesn't know. But he's mostly settled that it's simply a neighborly meeting between….neighbors, because to assume anything else might lead to Alfred doubled up on the floor in laughter, or sprinting away from the house again, and either way Arthur will have to sweep the remains of his heart into a dustpan, flush them down the toilet and never have anything to do with them again.

The water is running lukewarm-cold by the time he finally steps out, blinking in the steam. He dries off spiky wet hair with a towel and hurries back into the bedroom to glance at the clock. Half a day before Alfred arrives, so there's no need to put on the clothes he picked out yet, though he wants to.

He dryly notes without much humor that it's rather like Halloween.

After brushing his hair until it's shining dully, he steps into his closet and looks warily at the one pair of jeans he owns—a remnant from his memorable albeit regrettable days as a punk. Proud though he is that he can still fit in them, he finally decided that he'd wear one of his nicer shirts, trousers and loafers last night. It was a good balance; he had debated wearing his torn jeans and making for a "casual" atmosphere, had even briefly considered his tuxedo for one slightly more….intense—but Alfred will probably see Arthur looking much as he does every day, and if the boy comes over looking nicer or grubbier than usual, Arthur will simply spot him coming from the window and hastily change his clothes—and the decor—to accommodate it. He even has a basket of rubbish set aside so that he can strew its contents over the living room to turn it into careless and relaxed bedlam, which admittedly he hates but something tells him that's likely the state of Alfred's house.

Arthur's smug; it's so brilliant he could kiss himself; no wrong impressions, no humiliating maladroitness that makes them both contemplate killing themselves. Or each other. Since he'll be cooking soon and he doesn't want to get his nice clothes filthy, he changes into the jeans and a nappy old bed shirt.

He'd agonized over whether or not to get flowers, and then spent several hours trying to drink away the migraine that had come with his debating over what sort of floral display would be consistently appropriate for any mood. Arthur just settled on ordering three bouquets, which are due to arrive this afternoon in order to guarantee proper freshness. Perhaps a little extreme, but only too worth it: He wants nothing more than to send out the proper signal, whichever it may be Still politely distant, close and friendly, or I-want-you-and-am-likely-to-shag-you-the-moment-yo u-bend-over.

One bouquet is comprised of daffodils, daisies, and sweetpea blooms—a strange pick for Autumn, but cheerful and unassuming, even with their meanings. For daffodils: uncertainty, chivalry, respect or unrequited love, please return my affection. For daisies: innocence and beauty. For sweetpea blossoms: Gratitude.

He doubts very much that Alfred looks into the meaning of such things, but Arthur has always been one to take several miles where one would take an inch. The second bouquet is perhaps more appropriate for the cooler season what with its warmer, less whimsical colors. Huh. Maybe he ought to have gone into interior designing, though he only ever would have been able to work from home.

To be used if Alfred came over dressed a little less whimsically than usual. Marigold: Pain and grief (he especially hopes Alfred doesn't know that one, shouldn't have picked it in the first place but it looks nice), Narcissus: unrequited love and self-interest, red carnations: my heart aches for you, longing, Rue flowers: shame and mourning, and hydrangea: simultaneously meaning frigidness and 'I'm glad you know me,' something Arthur finds ironic.

The third bouquet is comprised entirely of red roses. _I adore you entirely. _He doesn't like these boldy overstated flowers very much at all, but yet he ordered just….just in case. Arthur always likes to be ready just in case.

After brushing his teeth so hard his gums bleed, he bustles off into the living room, making a beeline for his computer and the recipes he'd painstakingly picked out.

He hears a timid meow coming from the door and he looks up to see Scotch staring up at him, uncertainly wobbling on three legs, fourth one still in a cast.

"No, no," Arthur chastises, scooping him up and kissing him on the head. "None of that, you silly little thing, you need to rest. I'll bring you your breakfast shortly."

The cat's green eyes wander towards the anteroom as Arthur heads back to his room and the man scowls at him. "Oh, no, not a chance. That door's been boarded up for good, you realize. And I think it best if you stay in your cage, I can't be tripping over you all the livelong day and you need to take it easy…."

Scotch starts yowling the moment Arthur opens the little door, but it's with a firm hand he shuts the unhappy cat inside, feeling some guilt and some vindictive pleasure as Scotch unhappily noses at the metal bars. Well, what can be done? His pet will do a fair amount of sleeping, especially when doped on his twice-a-day medication, but he still tries to leap up on furniture and on bookshelves and dispiritedly bump his head against the planks at the front door. If Scotch hurts himself again, there is absolutely nothing Arthur can do but wait for Alfred to return. He hasn't found the young man's page on any social media sites, which is baffling.

He prepares a dish of tuna and while Scotch snuffles at it when Arthur slides it inside, he doesn't seem awfully interested. He turns around to face the back of the cage, refusing to give in to Arthur's soft calls and entreating touches with what little of Scotch he can touch through the unit. Shaking his head, Arthur heads back to the living room to get a start on any dirt which might have accumulated overnight. And to carefully label the records he'd organized so that he can access them at ease were the evening to shift in another direction.

~o*oOo*o~

Alfred's due at five, but Arthur starts cooking at two. By that time the flowers have arrived and so have more ingredients, not that he hasn't been practicing vigilantly ever since he decided on a menu: Southern cuisine. He'd briefly played with the idea of making a traditional English meal, but unless society has changed significantly since he has last submerged himself in it, English cuisine simply isn't very popular in the states. Strange, considering America has more variety in foreign restaurants than anywhere else in the world.

Southern cuisine could be either elegant or careless pigslop, so it had seemed only prudent. He slaps down the printed recipe cards on the counter and glowers viciously at them, trying to swallow a hard knot of apprehension. Arthur had never done much complicated cooking growing up, though that one time he'd _tried_ making supper in college his roommate actually had the _gall_ to tell him that if he ever left any dental floss in his kitchen, the roaches would hang themselves.

"If you let me down, woman," He storms at Paula Dean's smiling face. "I will…well, _I_ won't be doing anything, but I will hire people to come to your house and _cut_ you."

It seemed a good omen, using recipes from a cook who was not only infamous for using a whole stick of butter and plenty of sugar in most of her recipes, but who was also a former agoraphobic. He remembers picking that up one day when he was so hungover he'd spent the entire day drooling on the sofa and watching a Food Network marathon.

Steeling himself, Arthur begins pulling out all his necessary items. It will be fine and Alfred will adore it. Cornbread really only needs four or five items, and all you do is throw them in a bowl and stick it in the oven, so it can't be_ too_ hard.

But he forces himself to look painstakingly over the instructions, glancing up to reconfirm what he already knows perhaps over half a dozen times.

He has to get this right, just right. He has plenty of ingredients should he need to start over, but the less dishes he needs to clean, the sooner he can scrub them and leave the kitchen looking immaculate even as supper looked picturesque on either his paper plates, bone china blue ones he only ever used for a special occasion, or on ordinary ceramic ones.

Just as he gets the asparagus into the oven, wiping his brow, the doorbell rings and he perks up; that'll be the flowers.

* * *

_Bri-iing! Bri-iing! Bri-iing! Brii-_

He has to rip out the smoke detector to make it shut up.

Now he knows why he's never once held the desire to host a dinner party; this is mad. He's on his very last tray of asparagus and it's a good thing Scotch is sulking a good distance away in the living room, because Arthur honestly feels ready to strangle someone.

Gasping, he splashes water on his scorched eyebrows, wincing at the pile of greasy, slightly-burnt pans that have accumulated marks, layers of oil and ruined food he hasn't been able to chisel off just yet. Okay. Well, the salad looks fine, at the very least, it's already in the fridge and the second round of potatoes actually looks okay, but the cornbread, asparagus, and the meat are being positively _beastly_ and it's all he could do to keep running from dish to burning/gurgling/foaming dish. It doesn't help that every so often he remembers that he ought to set the table or choose an arrangement or the music or the right scented candles already, only to immediately brought running back into the kitchen when something starts whistling like a banshee.

Thank heavens Alfred agreed to bring dessert, else Arthur might be lying in a fetal position on the floor and be downright sobbing. This is _insane_, absolutely insane and he can't figure out how to chase the smoke out of the room, pardoning opening the window and he'd really rather not do that, so he keeps flapping desperately at the air with a recipe card. Holy shit.

When damage control is somewhat underway and all the items need to sit for a moment, he warily backs away from the kitchen, half-convinced that the spiteful food will burst into flames the moment he turns his back. But of course it doesn't and he can finally lay out the nice handtowels in the bathroom and choose a record to put in and glance over his list of conversation topics in case there's a lull and re-straighten the table cloth which is going to be a neutral white and-

The doorbell rings and Arthur swears so badly even his cat lifts his head and gives him a reproachful look, though he's likely just imagining that. Putting the burner at a low and hastily stuffing the bone china and paper plates inside the nearby cupboard together (nearly breaking a dish in the process), he staggers off to the anteroom, calling: "Come in!"

_This is bad, bad, bad-_

But to his surprise, when he reaches the anteroom he can see the man still hasn't stepped inside.

"Uh, Arthur, can ya get the door for me? My hands are kinda full."

He comes to a dead halt at the steps, staring dumbly at the front door. Why in the world can't Alfred just set down his parcel and open the damn door himself? Just approaching it makes him feel a little ill, but remembering Scotch, he reluctantly crosses the room, footfalls heavy and echoing.

Turning the handle just a little bit, he mutters another tentative "Come in" and hastily scrambles back; thankfully Alfred doesn't wait for him to open the door and instead just shoulders himself in, holding a curious-looking cloth bag and a small box. Arthur only gets a brief glimpse at first because he closes his eyes until he hears the comforting noise of the door sliding shut again.

"Hi!" And there's that smile again, Alfred's goofy, evil and Scrooge-warming smile that make Arthur's legs feel like a melted mess of candle wax plastered to the floor. "Sup, British dude?"

"Your manners are abhorrent, Alfred," Arthur says by means of hello.

"Hey, at least you're acknowledgin' I _have_ manners," the man says cheerfully, awkwardly shimmying himself out of his jacket whilst still holding his parcels. "That's more than my bro or Ma will do, trust me."

"How was your day?" Taking Alfred's jacket is strange, hanging it on the coathook which probably hasn't been used for over two years is stranger. "Hope the children didn't wear you out this week." Oh, for the love of God, why doesn't he just don a flowery apron, pearls, and rubber gloves right now? His face burns with some embarrassment and he opens his mouth to apologize, only to hear Alfred start chuckling his annoying chuckle. It's sickeningly cheerful, boyish and almost maniacal in its consistency. He likes it.

"It's my job to wear them out. Just a bit. But I think it's an ongoing competition, which is awesome." Alfred takes an appreciative whiff of the air as he follows Arthur timidly shuffling back up the steps. "Smells great! What are we having tonight?"

He feels better. "Oh…nothing too fancy…" The wine, on the other hand, is a different matter entirely. "Mashed tubers…"

Alfred double takes. "Wha?"

"Potatoes," Arthur corrects himself, ears burning. "Green beans, strawberry salad…." With any luck, they wouldn't have browned since the forty seconds Arthur had checked them last. "Cornbread, and a bit of t-bone steak."

You could probably hear Alfred whooping from the drive. Ears ringing, Arthur grits his teeth and exhales. Well. Hopefully his attitude would be the same once he actually _tasted_ it...

He glances down at himself and turns pale; he's wearing a baggy old shirt and torn jeans positively spattered with flour and oil. Arthur almost drops dead out of sheer mortification then and there as he guides Alfred into the living room. Fantastic. He takes a quick glance back at his guest, surprised that he'd forgotten to properly size up what Alfred was wearing. He'd just been so _flustered_...

A sweater and dark blue jeans. Perfectly normal. Without thinking he sags into the sofa, just barely keeping tabs on Alfred's eager chatter concerning steak and memorable old cookouts."

"-by the way, I bought an old barbeque recently at a garage sale recently," he finishes proudly, taking a curious glance at Arthur before settling down beside him. "Need to cook steak on the grill sometime to pay you back."

Moron. Did he forget already? It's a little endearing nonetheless.

"Mmmh," Arthur mumbles off-handedly, reluctantly standing up and stretching. He's worked so hard for this day and now he wants nothing more than to take a nap! "Care for something to drink?"

"You know it." Alfred stoops to pet Scotch, who scrunches up his face but tolerates it. "Hey, there, little guy. Doing any better?"

"I think so," Arthur says, handing over a beer because he's too tired to bother opening the damn wine just yet. "The first two days he was more dead than alive, but he's been perking up again. Well, he's certainly been in no mood to play, but he moves around more."

"Thas good to hear, but just take it easy for right—oh!" Alfred slams his fist against his face—did anyone actually do that outside the V-8 commercials?—"Shit, I almost forgot! Back in a sec, Iggy!"

And he sprints out. Staring bemusedly and shaking his head, he trudges back to the stove to get a look at the cornbread. It looks pale underneath the oven light, and as he doesn't want tonight to end up with them both getting salmonella poisoning, he leaves the tray alone.

A second later his heart nearly launches out of his chest with all the impact of a bullet shell when Alfred bursts back into the room like a robber, clutching a small basket.

"Nearly forgot another guest," The man says proudly, hoisting up the basket so that Arthur can get a closer look. "Picked him up two days ago. Eyes still aren't open just yet, but he's doin' pretty well." Alfred pokes at the little cat's head, grinning proudly as it starts mewing. "Say hi, little—oh," he adds dumbly. "This little guy can't see just yet, but when he can, I'll have to learn sign language or something."

Hesitant, Arthur carefully rubs a fingertip over one of the white and brown feline's fuzzy ears, smiling just a little when the furry, webbed thing shivers at the touch and the kitten's pink nose twitches as it tries to seek him out. "Such a wee thing. Let me guess, runt of the litter?"

"How'd ya know?" Alfred asks, looking curious when Arthur snickers and waves his hand dismissively. "This little guy was abandoned and they couldn't find him a nice mom cat for him to nurse from, but he's doing okay, just has to be bottle-fed and washed with a warm rag every once in awhile. Sometimes he tries to get up, doesn't really get too far beyond poking around the basket. Thought about callin' him Wobbles, cause he does that a lot."

Nose prickling, Scotch opens a green eye from his comfortable nest of blankets and pillows. Confused, he slowly rises to his three good feet, and decides to slink over, a tiny frown settling on his features as he rests on a surprised Arthur's foot. With a small smile Arthur hefts him up, but Scotch's green eyes are fixed on the tiny little rat sleeping in the blue-eye-taller-than-Arthur's hands. What does it want, and what does it do here?

"Does it matter where I put this guy?" Alfred asks, looking around. "Don't want him to get stepped on or nothing."

"I think you mean 'anything,' Alfred, and if you like…" Arthur clears his throat and bashfully scuffs at the floor. "You can put him on my bed."

Alfred smiles and trails after Arthur, the man quickly asking a question about the little cat-his master has never been one to miss a beat. The Fold settles back in his blankets but doesn't go back to sleep, still incredibly displeased with this turn of events.

He does not mind the tall-man-blue-eyes being here, especially since it was he who picked him up when the world was burning-hot-pain-everywhere-dying-dying-pierced-sk in-with-bone-sticking-out. He'd wrapped him up and put him in a moving something before Scotch had been put to sleep and woke up feeling just a little better. Albeit with an annoying clunky wrap around his leg he was still trying to chew off, with little to no avail.

The man is welcome. But the creature will not chase him from here! He was here first, and he will not be chased out, even if there's no way out of this house that he can find!

Smelling burning food and being too used to this to care, Scotch painfully rises after he sees Arthur and Alfred walk back in, babbling again. They do not notice him. He enters his bedroom and sees the kitten sleeping on HIS and Arthur's bed.

The thing may be tiny, but it is still a threat and it is still bad and he does not want it in his house.

Yowling softly, he expects the small cat to get up and perhaps growl a warning of its own, but it continues to sleep. Stupid, self-assured beast. It only makes him angrier.

Maybe this is his opportunity. He would grab it as he grabbed so many rodents by the neck, sink his sharp teeth until he tasted blood and shake shake shake until the flailing limbs were still and the neck snapped cleanly in two.

A blessing in disguise. He wanted to run, he wanted to hunt, he wanted to be outside and in the grass as he pleased, even if he still hurt considerably. And the frustration and the indignity of being shut up had the feline bubbling over with rage.

With some difficulty, Scotch manages to clamor on top of Arthur's bed, claws sinking into the fabric of the blankets. Eyes dilating, he slowly approaches the basket where the stupid rat-creature sleeps on peacefully, curled up in a little ball.

Time to kill.

~o*oOo*o~

He had just been prattling about something important—his first (_and last, though Alfred needn't know that_) book signing. The young man had looked impressed and it had felt good to talk about something that had truly made him proud; his mannerisms aside, there were fair few of those.

Until the the smoke starts wafting in from the kitchen, that is. Harakiri's looking quite appealing right now.

"Nah, Arthur, it doesn't look bad at all." When Arthur only looks up to give him a seriously morose look, Alfred stifles a giggle. "Seriously, man, I like my stuff kinda well done. Any good cook lets southern food get nice and brown around the edges."

"You mean nice and _black_ around the edges," Arthur gripes, forcing his face into a bristly scowl when laughter starts pealing around the room. "Now I'll have to start all over again."

"Wha? Why? They're not all that bad." Alfred picks up a piece of very-well done cornbread and nibbles at it. "Please don't worry about it. Uh, anything I can do to lend ya a hand?"

"No," Arthur snaps, putting a hand on his hip and pointing bossily towards the dining room before weakening. Well, if already everything is falling apart... "I don't suppose it would be too tacky to ask you to set the table, would it?"

"Course not!"

"Go sit then. Dinner's almost ready, I promise."

Alfred wanders off to do just that, his eyes widening with surprise upon looking at three positively enormous bouquets at the table. They certainly made the room smell like a florist shop...and what was with all the candles? It ranged from little tea-lights to those fancy-schmancy $17 a pop Yankee Candles.

"Hey, Arthur, what's with all these flowers?"

Damn! He'd forgotten to pick the right arrangement!

"O-oh….never mind that, Alfred," he calls out blithely, painstakingly turning over the meat with a sharp poker and imagining stabbing himself with it. "I-I'll move two of those myself..."

His neighbor was quiet for a moment.

"Did fans send them?"

That makes him sound cooler than he actually is, so Arthur all but mutters a tentative "Yes." Then, "You can take a bouquet home with you—I don't have much use for flowers."

Alfred smiles a little at that, running a finger over a pretty pink blossom. "Artie, you sure I can't do anything to help?"

"Actually, everything's done now."

It's still a little light outside, but Arthur insists on drawing the curtains shut and lighting candles, which unfortunately don't make so much for a romantic or even a warm atmosphere but an eerie, horror movie-esque feel.

"This looks amazing!" Alfred exclaims when at last Arthur sinks down in his chair with "You must have been cooking all day."

"Not at all," Arthur says grandly, exactly the way he planned. With any luck Alfred won't notice the tremendous pile of dirty pots and pans positively towering in the sink like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. He takes a sip of water, eyes anxiously trained on Alfred.

Humming cheerfully, Alfred wastes no time in swirling his fork around a bright orange pile of potatoes, takes a colossal helping, opens his mouth and-

_Crunch. _

Alfred freezes, his fork falling from a limp hand and clattering against his plate before his opposite hand flies to his jaw. "Ow."

Distraught, Arthur stares, going hot, then cold. "W-what happened? Alfred, are you alright?"

"No…no, it's okay…" Alfred presses a napkin to his lips, eyes watering. "Um, did you cut out the potato stones?"

"I was…they aren't….edible?" Arthur asks, horror and humiliation breaking over him and he almost-he really, really wants to run off to his room and cry right now. "I'm so sorry! Oh, God, Alfred, did you chip a tooth?" He half-rises from his chair. "Do I need to get the first aid kit?"

"Nah, it's okay!" The gym teacher immediately exclaims, hastily shoveling in potatoes in a somewhat revolting gusto. "Potato stones add flavor! Seriously! I was complimenting you on your idea to incorporate them! It's really good, no worries!"

Eyes still touched with misery and uncertainty, Arthur bleakly watches Alfred continue to inhale them. "Is it really alright?"

"Better than alright." Swallowing, Alfred immediately stabs the meat as if it owes him money and rips off a piece rather than saws it before eating it with all the severity of a soldier. "Say, did you put sugar on the meat? It's a great touch!"

~o*oOo*o~

Dinner thankfully doesn't hold too many more surprises—the salad tastes fine, albeit odd, though it's with a mortifying lurch in his stomach Arthur realizes he'd forgotten to shell the pecans before putting them in. And he's pretty certain his steak is perhaps just a little more than 'well-done.' But Alfred doesn't raise any complaints, and his plate is cleaned once and then some, so Arthur leans back once he's full and just enjoys the spectacle, feeling tired and grateful all at once. There's a warm sort of domestic glow in the air and he's too weary to care about shaking it off.

That's fine, because Alfred does it for him. Barely stifling a burp, he leans back in his seat with a little groan of approval and Arthur smirks at him; he can't help it. "Full, are we?"

"Nah. Time for dessert." Not seeming to notice Arthur gaping at him, Alfred wanders over to the small box and bag he brought sitting on a table and opens the former, moseying back.

"Pound cake?"

"Yeah." Grinning like a little trick or treater about to show off a prize, he opens up the bag and Arthur curiously peers inside, immediately taken aback.

"...you can_not_ be serious."

"Totally am," Alfred teases, poking Arthur in the nose and earning a half-hearted slap on the hand in return. "C'mon, you never wanted to decorate a cake once? Even when you were a kid? I have _jellybeans_ with me, dude!"

"I'm no good at art," he says honestly, pulling out a small container of sprinkles and shaking it like a maraca without much enthusiasm. Alfred snorts and starts pulling one, two, three different bags of candy. Arthur's already feeling a little nauseous.

"Hell, neither am I. But my bro says writing is an art, if that makes ya feel any better. 'Sides, it don't really matter what it looks like, considering it all looks the same in our digestive tract, anyway."

"Then why are we even _bothering_ decorating?" Arthur protests.

"Because it's _fun!_" His neighbor exclaims incredulously, pulling out two little tubes of edible glitter and twirling them both in his hands like batons. A second later, he's miming shooting them both at a thunderstruck Arthur. "Ptt-choo, ptt-choo! _Gee-zus_, Artie. Even an elementary school kid this is like...the height of all human pleasure, the swami of swing, uh...the bomb dot com, all that and a bag of chips, the shizz...hell, there's really no word for the awesomic awesomeness that is cake decorating, so I'll say it's supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."

"You did not just use a Mary Poppins reference on me, boy."

He winks. "Totally did, Grampa." While Arthur's stammering and sputtering, Alfred just gives him another attack with that sparkling grin and asks, in a voice that is too adorable, "Help me?"

* * *

The end result isn't exactly pretty; the sagging, drippy cake is positively smothered in cream cheese and artificially-colored frosting, so much so that it isn't a pound cake anymore so much as it is a ton cake. Arthur had begun doodling simple flowers in yellow and blue frosting, but that seemed a tad gay so he moved on to making a playing-suit pattern with the red and black frosting. Unfortunately, that had more or less been cut off by Alfred's frosting-picture of cowboys and robots nuking it out over what had been New York and then wound up being Tokyo. He finishes only a third of a piece.

And then he'd accidentally flicked frosting on Alfred's face. He'd_ tried_ to apologize, but apparently Alfred thought that had given him the right to initiate some sort of bloody food fight, and now he and Alfred were an absolute mess.

To say nothing of his poor, poor dining room.

"Let me help you with dishes?" His neighbor asks as he wipes off whipped cream from a glass picture frame, still grinning broadly.

It's tempting, too tempting but Arthur shouts him down even though his basest instincts are crying out and dying for him to clean them posthaste. He already feels guilty for making Alfred set the table when everything should have been perfect and glowing upon arrival.

It's hard to feel very embarrassed for forcing Alfred to clean spring green frosting off the chandelier, though. He had responded with a vigor that had surprised and then consequently_ riled _himself once he stopped flinging candy at Alfred's face.

"Alfred, you dolt, spit that out immediately! Haven't you ever heard of the two second rule?!"

Sweeping up the fallen candies and popping a few in his mouth, Alfred swallows. "C'mon, man, haven't you ever taken a biology class? Yer already crawling with so much disease a few extra germs probably doesn't make much difference. Besides, you keep your place so immaculate you could eat off the floor every night no problem."

That's sweet, albeit disgusting. Alfred dumps the rubbish into a bag and glances at his watch and it almost stops Arthur cold because it's too_ early_ for him to leave yet, not now! "I should probably check on the little guy. Around this time he starts getting a little hungry. Mind if we head to the bedroom?"

Sharp fear assuaged just a little, Arthur tries to remember that the latter words don't mean anything...significant and just nods, though he's very relieved Alfred isn't looking at him this time.

"O-of course not."

But when the two get there, the basket is empty.

"Hey, where'd kitty go?" Alfred asks, peering underneath the little pillow and frayed old washcloths in case the kitten had hidden there. "Gee, I didn't even think he could walk yet…where d'ya think he got to?"

Arthur shrugs, eyes wandering up and down the room questioningly. "Well, he can't be outside," he says, almost proudly. "I just had the pet door fixed."

Brow furrowing, Alfred drops to his knees-he has a fine ass-and checks underneath the bed and dresser. "He wouldn't have gotten too far...I don't_ think,"_ he adds uncertainly, slowly getting up and tapping his fingers against his chin. "He's just a baby. Hmm...you and me were sittin' around at the table…" Suddenly Alfred freezes and the look of genuine fright on his face is enough to have Arthur's own heart jolt. "Um, is Scotch by any chance….territorial?"

The question is so unexpected and confusing Arthur blinks at him. "What do you mean?"

"Uh…I _just…_.remembered now….I'm sure he's a real nice cat, but if he feels threatened by another one, the vet told me some older cats that don't like kittens carry them off and—" Alfred winces, and his voice is very small, very close to self-horror. "Well, y'know…"

Arthur stares at him, opens his mouth to defend his loyal companion and then draws a blank. Oh, no. What if Scotch...but of _course_ he wouldn't, he was a gentle cat, wouldn't harm a fly, but Arthur immediately rushes into his closet to check anyway. No kitten.

Alfred is already hurrying down the hall, calling out for Scotch and "little guy" entreatingly; if Scotch rough-housed a little he didn't understand that the kitten was fragile, and maybe he thought he had to _defend_ himself and if he did it was hardly the poor fold's fault, but the idea of Alfred clutching a little white cat stiff and stained red makes his mind race as he rips off the covers on his bed. Not this again.

His hand flies around the covers in search of a lump, and he pricks his ears for even the tiniest, most muted mew. What does he do, it's the same panic he felt when he had lost Scotch but now _worse_, where did he turn what did he do where did he look first what if Alfred **hated** him-

"Awwww!" He hears Alfred exclaim, and in a heartbeat Arthur's hurrying out of the room, spots his neighbor bent over in the anteroom after a moment's searching. "Found 'em! Shoot, they were right here by the radiator. Scotch musta carried the little guy off to get cozy."

Closing his eyes and exhaling, Arthur takes a moment to get his bearings before heading to Alfred's side, worried face finally cracking into a smile when he sees Scotch give him a sheepish-looking pout before settling his face back on his paws. The kitten is snuggled up against him, snoozing.

"Ain't that cutest thing ever. I feel like barfing up sugary rainbow goo."

"Please don't," Arthur entreats sternly, knowing that Alfred very well_ can_ at this point. "Not on the carpet."

"Well, looks like Scotch made himself a new friend. Still, it's feedin' time." Smiling, Alfred makes to pull the tiny kitten out from underneath the Scottish Fold, but the irritated cat swings its head forward and sinks its teeth into Alfred's hand. "Ouch!"

"Scotch!" Mortified, Arthur glares at his pet, who scowls back. "I'm sorry, he's normally very docile, don't know what's gotten into him—Scotch, Alfred wants to take the little fellow back now," he chides reprovingly, his pet looking no more pacified as he stoops to try himself. "So let's just—aaah!"

Scotch bites him too, and when Arthur whips his finger back, there's a pause before the gleam of blood and he's seeing red.

"Scotch!"

Automatically his hand flies up in the air and Scotch's little ears flatten against his head, the anger quickly turning to wariness as the creature cowers.

"Hey, now," Alfred soothes, touching Arthur's wrist. "Don't get mad. Nothing personal. We'll get that cleaned up in a sec. Maybe Scotch just thinks that the cat stork came to visit or something."

"I'm glad to see you can find this amusing," Arthur snaps, humiliated that this has hurt him as much as it has.

"Poor guy's probably just been bored and lonely lately," Alfred says wisely, leading him away from the two felines. "And I bet his leg still hurts like a motherfucker. We'll take him back when Scotch's asleep. There's no rush."

"Hmmph." But he likes the idea of there being no hurry, so he doesn't protest as they head into the kitchen to clean their bites. He swallows when he takes Alfred's calloused hand into his own, applying a band-aid with near-surgical precision, if only to draw the moment of contact out.

"Hey, thanks. You probably want one on your hands too, huh?"

"I guess..." Alfred does the same, and neither of them say anything for a second, their expressions thoughtful. Arthur knows he ought to bring up his defacto list of activities in case his neighbor is contemplating heading out soon, but he's drinking in this point in time, absorbing the stillness into his body. He's known plenty of silences before, but this one is different because it's broken up by the sound of another person's breathing. Admittedly a little awkward, but not altogether unpleasant.

"Night's still young…" Alfred muses aloud, eyes brightening as he turns to look at Arthur. "Say, did you want to go see a movie? I think there are some good ones in now—"

"I don't like movie theaters." Arthur interrupts quickly, stomach clenching. "They make me claustrophobic."

Dumbfounded, Alfred blinks. Well, he hadn't expected _that_ kind of remark. "Huh…shoot. Uh, well, we could always hit the town, find that bar and—"

"Bars are annoying. They charge you seven dollars for a beer when you can just as easily buy your own for two." Smiling feebly, Arthur forces himself to walk away and strides towards the living room, heading towards an old bin he has set aside. "If you'd like to do something fun, would you…care to have a game night?"

He tenses as Alfred bobs his head eagerly and heads over to see what games Arthur has, his hand pausing over a few decks of cards.

_Don't say strip poker, don't say strip poker, don't say strip poker, mother of God, please say strip—_

"Up for a game of Old Maid?"

"….sure."

~o*oOo*o~

"Cheater!" Alfred exclaims, throwing down his cards with an anguished shout. "Cheating, cheating, cheater!"

Arthur just smirks and takes a sip of his wine, his tastebuds protesting against the taste. Maybe he really can't force himself to like the stuff..."I believe I just won. Again," he adds pointedly, and victory is sweet because Alfred is making a scene, so much more satisfying than beating a computer in solitaire. "Can't help it if you're exceedingly unlucky in the draw."

Actually, Arthur can see most of the cards Alfred draws by the reflection in his glasses, but Alfred doesn't need to know that, either.

"This sucks," The blonde gripes, grinning dejectedly before plopping on the ground with an over-the-top sigh. "Dude, we should head over to my place and play a little Smackdown via video games! You'd be in _my_ territory then, Kirkland! I'll show you no mercy!"

"Gee, I wonder how ever I can refuse," He says sarcastically, pouring the two more wine before picking up _Clue_. "I'm not finished making you cry just yet, old-school style."

The man goggles at him. "Methinks I hear a challenge. You won't be laughing so hard when I get you in the..." He picks up the old-fashioned box and squints in it. "The uh, observatory with a rope!"

"Not if I get you with the lead pipe in the bedroom first." It just slips out.

Alfred blinks, examining the board curiously. "I don't think there's a bedroom in this game, is there?"

"Why not? They have a bloody ballroom," he snaps defensively, pressing a hand against his stomach. Forget butterflies fluttering-it feels more like hawks are swooping inside him!

Thankfully however Alfred does not pursue the issue. There's some debate over whom plays whom, and at last they settle on Colonel Fubster (Arthur) and Mr. Green (Alfred). An unexpectedly intense competitive spark ignites in the former when Alfred gleefully rolls a stinking twelve (_how does anyone bloody do that, he's obviously scamming me_), and soon the two are intensely staring each other down, trying to glimpse at the other's checksheet results through the thin paper.

"That confidential file is so totally mine," Alfred mutters upon discovering that the wrench wasn't the weapon of choice. "Professor Plum is looking awfully shifty right now...I say he did it in the billiards room."

"Git, you're not supposed to tell me your guess-it's only helping me."

"It's always the quiet ones," Alfred mutters conspiratorially, giving Arthur's yellow piece a tap before passing his own game piece towards the Hall. "Say, you have to find out the room, the weapon, and the perp, but why don't you have a motive card? I don't think you can prove someone guilty unless ya got a motive. And hey, who's the victim here?"

Arthur frowns and glances at the instructions, careful not to allow Alfred a glance at his sheet. "Someone named Mr. Boddy...as for the motive, who bloody damn knows. Likely for money."

"That's boring," Alfred complains, pushing the dice over. "I say Mr. Boddy was two timin' Miss Scarlett and Miss Peacock and they both axed him in the library with a wrench. But Miss Scarlett's gonna take the fall for it cause she's a peach like that." Alfred glances over at the box. "A real pretty peach...who gets together with Mr. Green and they're all Christmassy together..."

He stiffens. "Until Professor Plum stabs her forty-seven times with a knife in the Drawing Room," Arthur notes coolly. Alfred's eyes widen comically.

"Wahhh! Wha?! Geez, always the quiet ones, huh? What's his friggin' deal, anyhow?"

"He gets paid off by someone to do it because no one would ever expect the quivering professor."

"Who does it?"

"I guess Mrs. White, in the kitchen, with the candlestick," Arthur says, neatly tapping his piece squares ahead of Alfred and heading down the stairs to get the envelope. "And-good lord-I seem to be correct! I win again!"

Alfred proceeds to throw his cards at him, roll onto his stomach, and start beating and kicking the floor with all his might. "YOU CHEAT! You're working for Mrs. White, you evil jerk! Or rather," he adds, before abruptly swinging up and knocking the game board off the table, "That was what you WANTED me to think, Colonel Fubster, if that IS your real name! Which it's totally not!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I see it all so clearly now! You made it look like you and Plum were just the henchmen of that evil maid so that you could make her your patsy when the time was up, leavin' ya free as a bird! But this PI saw through your evil scheme!"

"Since when is Mr. Green a-"

_"You_ wanted to kill Miss Scarlett because she was heiress to a collection of dinosaur bones and you were TOTALLY jelly because you're a stinkin' colonel but don't get no dino bones and she kinda killed Mr. B, who was your lifetime amigo. Well, tough luck pal, but Colonel F gets led off in chains to lead the rest of his life alone and Mr. Green gets hitched to Miss Peacock and everyone lives happily ever after!"

Arthur just blinks. What sort of track is Alfred's train on? And just how long ago did it derail?

"Maybe the Colonel_ was_ jealous," he says thoughtfully as he helps Alfred pick up the game pieces. "An interesting thought. Do you want to play again?"

"Nah. No thanks. I think I'll just chill a bit before I get my inevitable, terrible revenge." Alfred plops on his back with a grunt, looking more amused than particularly vengeful. Arthur coughs.

"You know, Alfred, if you like, you can sit on the couch with me if it's more comfortable..."

Too content with a patch of warm carpet fuzz and too lazy to upgrade, Alfred shakes his head. "Mmph. Plenty comfy right here, thanks."

Somewhat disappointed, Arthur folds his hands over his stomach and closes his eyes. The two sit in companionable stillness for awhile.

"I'm glad," he starts off hesitantly, inwardly wanting to kick himself but the wine loosens his tongue. "You came to the neighborhood. It's enjoyable having you here."

Looking surprised, the young man opens an eye and grins, eagle-armed on the floor.

"Aw, shucks. Thanks. Y'know, I was kinda worried that I wouldn't meet anyone but real old folks in this neighborhood. N-not that there's a problem with older people!" He adds hastily, flushing and wringing his hands. "But everyone's been so nice. You know that kooky lady from Monaco that's always sitting on her porch playing bridge with her friends?"

No. "Yes, of course."

"Isn't she something?" Alfred asks, sitting up and failing to note the muscle twitching below Arthur's eye completely. "You musta learned how to play cards from her, because she invited me to play one day and about _killed_ me. Real glad we weren't gambling with actual money, because otherwise I'd be sleeping in a box somewhere. I had to pay off my losses by doing yardwork."

Arthur frowns. "Well, that doesn't sound very nice." Well, so Arthur wasn't the only person Alfred visited; of course. Only natural and realistic, considering the boy is naturally a very out-going and altruistic person.

Doesn't make him feel any better, doesn't stop him from wishing otherwise.

But Alfred doesn't look the least bit put out. "She told me I didn't really _have_ to, but she has a cane and some trouble movin' around, so it was no problem. Once I finished weeding her garden and stuff she invited me in for lemonade and these lemon squares that tasted like _crack_." Belly full notwithstanding, he shivers in pleasure.

_Note to self: Find best bakery in the area, find interesting dessert, have them deliver, pass them off as your own._ He feels a little better upon hearing that the woman is elderly, but it also aggravates him just a little to hear her getting the same treatment from Alfred as he had. It makes him feel like a charity case and he hates it.

"Then she told me all these freaking wild stories about bein' a showgirl and then the owner of a cushion and then a…a _burlesque _house for some time." Alfred blushes at the b word just a little, and it's so cute Arthur wishes he had a camera. "Lotsa wild pictures and old antiques and the like…amazing woman. Then, her grandson actually came over for tea, and you may or may not have already met this guy…I think his name was Francis Bonno-something?"

Arthur chokes on his wine. "No," He says weakly as he drains his glass. "I don't believe I've met him."

"Huh, really?" His neighbor cocks his head. "We should fix that. Very nice guy, kinda on the weird side and over-the-top French to boot, but nice guy. He brought some croissants…not as good as your cooking, though."

And that comment plugs the hole inside where worry and trepidation and resentment and something hot and bubbling and angry are flooding through, thick and oily-sweet as suet. It takes him a minute to realize that his mouth is open and he promptly closes it, a pleased smile impossible to hide.

"That is very kind of you to say, Alfred."

Alfred smiles. Doesn't his face hurt from smiling all the time? Then again, if it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, at least Arthur has _one_ part of his body stronger than Alfred's.

"Guess I should head back," he says reluctantly with a sigh. "It's getting late."

"Have another glass of wine before you go?" Arthur asks anxiously, gesturing to the not quite empty bottle still on the table. "I'm afraid I'm not going to finish it, and I don't actually care for wine very much."

"Neither am I, to be honest," Alfred noted, before taking the bottle and swigging down the contents anyway, making a face as he set it down. "Blegh. Too bitter and you can't mix it with stuff or you'll hurl. But hey, I've never been one to say no to free booze. Ma taught me well."

Damn it, that hadn't gone as it should have. Then again, should he really have taken Jones for some fussy wine connoisseur snob like Francis, who needed perhaps an hour to finish a glass of very high quality wine? "Would you like me to turn some music on? It's a bit quiet in here."

The blue-eyed man nods distractedly and Arthur gets up over to his records. Alfred's sleepy look immediately gives way to astonishment.

"Whoa, dude, you have, like, a gramophone? A real, workin' gramophone? I thought that was just a model of some kind! Do you work in a museum or something?!"

"Hilarious." Arthur rolls his eyes.

"I'm serious."

That by itself is more annoying than anything else, but Arthur puts a record on anyway. Suddenly Alfred jumps to his feet, positively _cackling_ with delight.

"Hey, just had an awesome idea—"

And he seizes a dumbfounded Arthur's hands and tugs the stuttering man forwards. "D'ya wanna lead or follow?"

He's making sounds, but can't decipher them; the motor engine between his brain and his mouth seems to be damaged at this point in time. "A-aaah…?"

"What's wrong? Dunno how to dance?"

Trying to regain some dignity and too aware of Alfred's hands on his own, he looks at their stockinged feet.

"….you can't be serious."

"Dude, I totally am! C'mon, man, it'll be fun!" It'll be his death. "You know how to tango, right? Or maybe you'd just like to start off with something real easy like the cha-cha…."

He trails off, and even the oblivious man can see just how frigid Arthur, like a long-time frozen statue. "Well, never a better time to learn than right now," he says reassuringly, though Arthur is anything but reassured. "We'll just do basic box step; anyone can do that easy-peasy lemon squeezy. So," Alfred briskly asks again, squeezing hold of what now must be very cold, clammy hands and Arthur's breath hitches and his thoughts have been hazed over with a delightful, sugary glaze of stupidity. "Lead or follow?"

"L-lead," Arthur chokes out at last. Alfred nods.

"Okay, so if you want to lead, you put your hand on my hip…" When it becomes apparent Arthur has no means of doing that, Alfred shrugs and does it for him, which promptly loses all feeling before becoming extraordinarily hypersensitive, pressed against warm and toned muscles underneath the jeans that hug his legs. He prays Alfred can't feel just how badly his hand is sweating through the material.

"…good, now your other hand goes _here_…." Forget dancing, this is nerve-wracking enough, drying his throat and making him both want to smile and cringe all at once. "Now, you're gonna move to the left with your left foot, and then righty's gonna follow, okay?"

Clumsily, he obeys without thinking about it, and the effect is not graceful. Alfred moves with him, still smiling encouragingly and Arthur thinks he might have left his stomach in their starting position—can he please get it back?

"Good! Now, you're gonna step forward, and I'll take a step back."

If he steps forward his face will collide with Alfred's and he it takes him a second to remember why that's a very, very awful thing when the depraved fluttering in his chest is _craving _for him to crush his lips against Alfred and bring him to a very different sort of dance altogether—in his bedroom.

He must've acted without realizing it, because the room has moved or perhaps he has, more likely the latter. Alfred is nodding in approval. "Nice. Now it's my turn to go left, and you go right."

"What next?" He asks weakly when Alfred more or less pushes him into moving and he makes a baby-step in the right direction.

"That's pretty much it! Lather, rinse, repeat. The kids at school can get this down really quick. Hell, anyone can."

"You have them dance with each other?" Arthur asks, his hand already growing slick within Alfred's and he keeps his eyes on his feet to keep them from doing the wrong thing.

"Yeah. They complain a lot sometimes, especially the boys." Alfred makes a face and mimics a squeaky, high-pitched tone: 'Ewwwww. Mr. Alfred, I don't _wanna _dance with girls.' 'Fine then,' I say, 'Dance with a boy.' They don't like that so much either, but there's no chance of getting cooties that way, which they prefer."

Arthur just bobs his head distractedly, slowly easing his body into the flow of the four simple steps, confused when Alfred all of a sudden lifts their right arms over his head and a second later he's a blushing, sputtering mess. "I—you—no—"

"C'mon, Artie, pirouette," Alfred sings and Arthur considers moving his slimy hand off Alfred's hip so that he can slap him properly. Most reluctantly the man does slowly turn and Alfred whistles.

Check slapping; later on he's going to slug Alfred right in his pretty face.

Only as the song comes to a close do Arthur's nerves settle once again. One-two-three-four. His legs move automatically now and though the movements flow now, it still seems more like a series of clinical, vague steps than an actual _dance_. "This is easy," he drawls, both incredibly relieved and admittedly disappointed when the notes fade away. Alfred's hand is hot and slick in his own and it feels incredibly juvenile, but when was the last time he'd danced with someone? "Too easy."

Alfred looks stunned for a moment before an absolutely evil grin lights up his face and Arthur's smug face falls.

"Oh, ya ready fer somethin' tougher, then?" He asks innocently, gently extracting himself from Arthur's hands, something that doesn't help soothe the irritable Brit.

"Maybe I am," Arthur says cautiously as Alfred begins carelessly rifling through his record collection. For God's sake, would it kill the boy to use just a little restraint? Those records were old and alphabetized!

"Well, in that case, would ya let me lead?" He asks, flipping through half a dozen records with little interest. "It'll be easier to show you the ropes if you can just copy me."

"….fine."

Something in Arthur's old record collection catches his neighbor's interest and the young man pulls the large disc out, curious eyes giving way to two enormous and starry ones, bright blue keenly shot through with delight. You would have thought the young man had won the lottery.

"Sweet! This is my song!" He exclaims, rushing to the old phonograph and quickly switching out the two records, resetting the needle before all but tripping over his feet back to Arthur's side. The young man takes one look at Arthur's expression before cracking up just a little. "There's that look again."

"And what look, dare I ask, is that?" Arthur asks snidely before Alfred's arms wrap around his waist. "Wha—"

"Hup," Alfred says incongruously, setting the bewildered man atop his own feet. "That'll make it easier."

"What in the world are you…."

Just then the machine begins playing, and the sound of drums begins to echo, a jazzy chorus of saxes accompanying the frivolous beat. His previously hot hands turn clammy as ice. "Oh, God, God, no, not Goodman…."

A second later Alfred is_ dancing_, _swing _dancing judging by the way he's practically throwing Arthur in the air and it's all the squalling man can do but hang on for dear life. "Told ya this was easier, didn't I? Hahahaha!"

"Heeelp!" Arthur wails when he's suddenly sent spinning, only for Alfred to seize his hand and send him spinning back, catching his back before he can tumble to the ground. Their faces are just inches apart and he _burns_ again. "Al—Alfred, stop, stop, I'm getting—"

"Sorry, man! It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing!"

And swing does he, until a yelping Arthur is set on Alfred's feet again, and the man is dancing and Arthur's just clutching him around the neck and blinking dumbly until he seizes Arthur's waist again.

"This here is called the 'Aerial Flip!'" Alfred merrily exclaims, much to Arthur's horror. With another grunt he heaves Arthur onto his back and the man can only kick uselessly at the air before Alfred stands up and Arthur slides off, too dazed and dizzy to prevent the man from lifting him up again. "This next one is called the 'Jumping Joe,' and there's the throwout next! Wanna try the throwout?!"

**_"Noooooo!"_**

At last, at last after three torturous minutes of jazz music blasting his ears out and his cat watching with some interest as Arthur was twirled about like a female figure skater or a teddy bear, he was gently lowered to the carpet, seething.

"Whew!" Alfred exclaims as he plops down next to him, mopping his sweaty, grinning face. "Did you have fun?"

Arthur swats him on the leg. "You're insane. And an idiot."

"So is that a no?"

"…"

"Heh." For a moment the two try to recapture their breath, or in Arthur's case restart his heart. Alfred shakily stands up again and heads to the phonograph and Arthur positively whimpers.

"No. No. Not again. I will kick you out of my home before I allow you to try that again."

"Okay." Alfred takes the record out—Arthur will have to accidentally run it through the shredder—and after some more shuffling, pulls out another record. "Is this okay? It's another oldie-goodie, slower one though. More box step, if you like."

If the box step were a person, Arthur should very much like to marry them. Did he have it in him for another dance? "….fine," he says reluctantly, letting out a long-suffering, exasperated groan before shakily getting back to his feet.

Now it seems like Alfred is in _his_ debt.

He sighs with relief when the familiar, mellow tune starts its peaceful hum; you couldn't breakdance or whatever the hell it was to this if you tried, which is good because Alfred would very likely break something if he started dancing THAT way again.

_Moon river, wider than a mile  
I'm crossing you in style some day_

"I like this song." Alfred remarks as he takes the few tiny steps in front of Arthur, suddenly looking a little bashful. "You like the oldies, Arthur?"

"I suppose," Arthur returns uncomfortably. Could he use another word another than 'oldie,' like 'classic?' "Can we do box again?" Very shyly, his hands wander back to Alfred's sides. "And I want to lead."

_Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker  
Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way_

"I wonder what this song means?" It seems like Alfred is just making conversation for the sake of it, because it seems pretty self-explanatory to Arthur.

_Two drifters, off to see the world  
There's such a lot of world to see_

_But the world isn't so bad in here. What's wrong with it?_

Somewhere along the way they start losing the structural and formatted box, which worries Arthur until he realizes Alfred is more or less copying him again, simply swaying serenely back and forth like seaweed rippling underwater. It's strange but comfortable, and on a whim Arthur raises their hands—annoyed that he has to stand on tiptoe—over Alfred's head. The man positively beams but obediently turns and the two return to the aimless rhythm.

_We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend  
My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me_

_Moon river, wider than a mile  
I'm crossin' you in style some day_

Alfred smells pretty, of cologne and sweat and flowers. It feels as if all his exhaustion is crashing down on him in a wave, and Arthur resists the impulse to hide his face in Alfred's shirt and keep rocking as if they're out on a boat.

_Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker_  
_Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way_

Now the dancing is weaker than ever, just slow shifts back and forth, back and forth. It's soothing, but also a little boring, much as Arthur is luxuriating in the scent and the warmth and the touch he hasn't had for over a thousand days.

_Two drifters, off to see the world  
There's such a lot of world to see_

It's a dark place inside of him that's yowling at him, gurgling like raw hunger but it seems bottomless and dangerous and he shies away from it because if he answers it once, it's simply going to devour it and demand more and more and more forever and it is raw yearning for more touch. For affection, for the sensation of being _held_, and he sort of has it right that but it's not _enough_.

_We're after that same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend  
My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me_

The song ends, but Arthur doesn't let go. Neither does Alfred. It's a long and awkward silence, but neither of them know where to look. He steals a glance at Alfred's face and is pleased to see that it's bright pink.

His neighbor turns and gives him a small smile before side-stepping, gently extracting himself to look at his watch. Then, he starts as wildly as if he's been given an electric shock.

"Wow. It's already past twelve!" Arthur is sullen because who the fuck cares if it's midnight, he's feeling more despondent than ever and that creature inside is silent, but fuming all the same. "I guess I should be going now. Getting up tomor…this morning is gonna be a bitch."

He turns, still not quite looking at Arthur, though he is smirking considerably.

"Going to escort me back, Mistah Kirkland?" He asks in a mocking, Southern dame-esque fashion. "I am oh-so-afraid and vulnerable alone in the dark."

Arthur rolls his eyes and snorts, and with that the spell that had held them both awkward and shy breaks. "Git, a few steps from my porch to yours is hardly going to kill you."

Alfred chuckles and thankfully does not press the matter, heading towards the anteroom. Blinking and a little put-out, Arthur dogs his footsteps, racking his brains desperately and finding no excuse to prolong Alfred's stay.

"Wait." He chokes out.

His neighbor glances at him as they enter.

"Arthur?"

"You look tired." Oh, it's fucking absurd, laughable, and only more likely to spur Alfred off but the man just nods and yawns, pausing in his retreat.

"I suppose I am," His eyes are drooping considerably. "Just a little. Haven't been sleepin' so good lately."

"Why is that?"

"Hell, I dunno."

"Mm."

"Y'know, you look tired, too."

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"Mmm."

Arthur timidly shuffles forward, not at all certain of what he wants to do, but he accidentally bumps into Alfred by mistake and his neighbor takes that as any excuse as any to give him a one-armed hug.

It's a light embrace, and that creature starts keening again even as it's somewhat pleased with the act of Alfred actually hugging him, supplying it with a few hearty thumps before he quickly steps away again. Did he want a relationship or didn't he? It seemed as if he liked nothing more than to scale his own wall and Arthur's, poke his neighbor and get his interest before scurrying behind the two barriers between them. So infuriating. He wants to shake him.

"Well, guess I do gotta get back." Alfred murmurs, stooping to where Scotch and the kitten still lay. "Looks like these two are sleeping, so I'll just—"

_Chomp_.

Wincing, Alfred slowly rises up again, shaking his head in honest befuddlement, a laugh escaping him. "I dunno what to do."

It's a golden opportunity; perhaps Scotch really does still love Arthur. The man pretends to think carefully.

"Well…if you wanted to come pick him up tomorrow afternoon…." It really isn't as if he has anything to spur the other man into coming back. "Maybe it'd do Scotch good to have some company. He's been awfully dreary as of late."

Alfred goggles at him and then beams in such a beautiful, stupid way Arthur immediately feels put on his guard, as if he has just unwittingly agreed to care for a particularly spiteful alligator. What's more annoying is that the smile is so endearing it outstrips his annoyance.

Making him all the more annoyed.

The two arrive in the anteroom and Alfred is already starting to have second thoughts by the time he heads for the door, Arthur keeping a safe distance away. "Sure you don't mind lookin' after the little guy tonight? I mean, he might start cryin' in the middle of the night and he doesn't do it to be a pain, he's just hungry, his formula's in a bottle in the basket, be sure he stays warm—"

_You sound like you're leaving me a human infant_. "Oh, please. It's the very least I can do. Besides," he adds, somewhat ruefully because it's the truth and he isn't so sure that he likes it, "It isn't as if Scotch won't try to tear me to pieces if I attempt to do anything else."

In reality, probably a bad idea. If Scotch got too attached, then…but he would forget. Cats were wonderful in that aspect. They forgot and they forgave. Hopefully.

Still looking far too delighted than he had any right being, Alfred steps forward and gives him a real hug, practically cracking his vertebrae and it was magnificent and Arthur automatically held on again because this was painful and greed and pleasure.

This was Alfred, whom he _wanted_, wanted not to step outside the door because that meant people like Mrs. Monacan-what's-her-face and that ghastly prick Bonnefoy could look at him all they wanted to whenever they desired to and _that was not okay. _Not in the slightest.

And it wasn't_ safe _out there. If something happened to Alfred, he'd only find out about it by skimming the news-!

Self-conscious, Arthur reluctantly loosens up on his hold and Alfred obliges by slithering free, looking significantly embarrassed.

"Sorry if that was creepy. Just had a real nice time tonight. And ya looked like you needed a hug something bad."

Arthur smiles and shakes his head. Then, he asks:

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

Five years. He lets out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. Well, not a_ horrible_ gap, perhaps….and it wasn't like he was an eighteen year old trying to shag a thirteen year old boy. It was _different._

"So, you'll drop by tomorrow?"

Alfred winks and he _swoons_. Hell. He is a lost cause. Fuck.

"Sure thing." A hint of his pale pink tongue wetting his lips as he thinks for a second. "Sometime after school. May be a little late, though—gotta handle all the damn paperwork on my desk and get the kids' grades in before Thursday."

"You could always bring them with you," he offers. Alfred shakes his head.

"Probably not a good idea, Arthur. I come to visit you and I probably won't get anything done."

A white hot thrill zips inside, blinding him momentarily. "Oh." Cleverest response he can think of. "I can't thank you enough for rescuing Scotch."

"Seriously man, just let it go. I'd do it again." Another stupid pause. "Um, goodnight. Just call me if there's anything wrong with the kitty, okay?"

"I don't have your number." _Give it give it give it give it give it give it_.

Alfred pulls out a marker from his pocket, scribbles his number on Arthur's hand, and pulls open the door. Arthur's eyes snap shut and he doesn't see the wave the young man gives him before disappearing into the night, so close and yet so far away.

~o*oOo*o~

**Alfred, you little flatterer, of course the croissants were better than Arthur's cooking. By a long shot.**

**If I ever lose more work again, I'm going to end myself. Seriously. I was on the _final paragraph_ on this stupid chapter and I press ONE deadly button….*Grumble grumble* You think a girl would learn…few things are more frustrating than being confronted with your own stupidity, besides it coming up over and over again. **

**Alfred needs to read the atmosphere *cough* rife with sexual tension *cough*. Can anybody lend it to him? I'm sure it's a very engaging read. :)  
**

**This is probably the longest chapter in the story, hope to see you next time!  
**


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